Afternoon of a Faun
by thursdaysisters
Summary: Teen!Chesters Wincest. To sum up the soap opera so far, Sam age 14 bangs monsters and in fact has this grand fantasy of being screwed to death by a monster , Dean age 18 has a hot-for-teacher crush on John that makes Sam insanely jealous.
1. Sour Cherry

**Reader note: there is a music cue later in this chapter, when you hit the part about Janis Joplin, go listen to her live version of "Ball and Chain" from her Best Of Album, youtube has it.**

* * *

><p>"So who are you with these days?" asked Girl 1.<p>

"I've been sneaking off with Dean a lot." Girl 2 replied.

"Pfft, he doesn't count," said Girl 1 dismissively, "Who are with for real?"

"Oh, I'm going to prom with Levi Steiner, he's going to be a _dentist_."

Dean's mouth twisted a little at this, his head leaned up against a pillar where they couldn't see him as he waited for Sam to get out of class.

"I heard he's not even planning on going to college," said Girl 1, "Who gets married without at least a bachelor's degree?"

Cars lined up and left as the high school emptied out, and circling around the other side of the gym to avoid the girls, Dean reached for his cell phone to check for messages.

"Come on Sammy..." he muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets. John was out of town with the car this week, leaving the boys with a job down the road, and hopefully the chance to make some cash cutting grass over the spring break.

Shoving open the door to the boy's locker room, he peaked his head in, ears pricked for the distant hum of a shower.

* * *

><p>Sam held his breath, his face dark except for the square of light that shone thru the gap in the tiles that peered into the shower room. The two girls, classmates of his that he'd dubbed Boobs and Braceface, were making out in a plastic chair.<p>

Boobs held up a battered paperback entitled _Bitsy's Undoing_, and read, "Make me a woman!"

"No!" said Braceface in a manly voice, holding the other girl at arm's length, "Baby I'm no good for you!"

"But it's _destiny_!" cried Boobs, still reading from the book, "I'm the only one for you!"

"Now what do we do?" asked Braceface in her normal voice.

Boobs flipped the page. "More talking, more talking...eeeeeew, I dunno if I wanna do that, let's just do the kissing part."

"Okay." and the girls proceeded to french kiss. It was sloppy and fake, and every now and then they would stop to giggle and make sure no one was within earshot, but Sam was hypnotized, his cheeks burning as he pressed a thumb to his lower lip.

A car honked in the distance. "Mom's here," said Boobs, "Wanna try again this weekend?"

"Maybe," said Braceface, "Do you even like this?"

Sam pressed his ear to the gap. The girl said something in reply, it was hard to hear over the shower...

"Sammy?"

Sam jerked away from the wall. "Dean?"

"Get your stuff and let's go, I need your help with research."

Sam nodded, grabbing his bookbag and following him out of the gym. The girl's reply burned in his brain, not quite understanding what she meant by it, and it bothered him the entire car ride back to the motel.

* * *

><p>Dean held his head in his hands, letting his eyes unfocus on the old books. John was out on a hunt for the next week, and had asked the boys to look into some unusual infant deaths in the area in his absence, but the Girl's conversation still rankled within him.<p>

"Dentist..." he muttered bitterly, pouring himself another shot of whiskey. The AC was busted, and the forecast predicted a sweltering spring break with the lows in the 80s that night.

Sam sat cross-legged on the bed, tapping his pencil against a newspaper. "Police report says they died of blood loss."

"Great, Dracula's got a taste for veal," said Dean, knocking back his drink, "Well, we'll go look for the lair in the morning, too dark to do anything now."

"I didn't think traditional vampires went for babies," said Sam, "What if it's something else?"

"Let me know if you think of something Poindexter." said Dean, pouring yet another shot. Sam counted this as the sixth in the last hour, and for a moment the room was quiet save for Janis Joplin wailing_ Ball and Chain_ on their little radio.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

Dean rubbed his face. "Fine, just...weird day is all."

"Yeah, same." said Sam, fidgeting on the bed as if he were working himself up to ask something. "Um, hey, when you were my age, did you ever know any girls who would...ya know, get together?"

Dean looked over at him. "What, girl on girl?"

"Not for real," Sam said, the_ for real_ echoing hotly in Dean's memory, "It's like they were practicing."

"Oh that," said Dean blearily, "Yeah chicks do that, though once they start going with boys, they pretty much quit."

Sam sat up from the bed, slowly as if approaching a sleeping wolf. "I wasn't even sure if they liked it, the acting out. They were reading to each other out of a novel."

Dean felt the whiskey burn in his gut, softening the edges around Sam's face as he inched closer. The kid was barefoot, dressed only in some jean cutoffs and a thin white shirt criss-crossed with dirty fingerprints on the bottom, but he smelled like grass and salt and summer clouds.

"So they were fucking?" asked Dean, hoping the bad word would put them back on the right footing, of two guys just shooting the breeze, and not this strange, foreboding feeling that something was waiting for him, stalking him on cat's feet.

"No, it was just kissing." said Sam, now standing over him, the lamp light casting a shadow that ran up over the bed and against the headboard, "But one of the girls said something, when they asked if she liked it or not."

"Yeah?" asked Dean, breathing quietly thru his mouth as he looked up, too drunk to be scared.

"She said, this doesn't count."

Sam leaned over, placing his fingers gently on either side of Dean's face, drawing himself in closer and asking, "Can I...?"

Dean didn't move, not wondering why he needed to give permission, numb from the alcohol as Sam kissed him gently on the mouth. It didn't feel like much of anything, and only lasted a second before Sam pulled away. "It's okay, you can pretend I'm someone else." Sam whispered.

He leaned in for another kiss, and this time Dean responded, though he had to grip the arm chairs to keep the rest of his body from leaning in. He told himself, this doesn't count, the kid is just practicing,_ this doesn't count, _and thought that as long as they kept it at this, everything would be okay, it wouldn't change anything.

But the kiss deepened, and Sam worked his mouth open so that he could breath, panting into Dean's mouth, his lips hot and needy. His hands reached around, fingertips trailing the bristle hairs on the back of Dean's neck, until his arms were wrapped around his neck. "Dean, please..."

The sound of his own name woke him up, and he threw up a hand to push Sam away, but he wasn't fast enough. Sam took his hand, and began to pull him toward the bed. "Please..." he pleaded, laying down slowly and pressing Dean's palm to his belly, "Please help me. It's like something's got a hold of me."

Sam was young, but he was near to having a man's build, all flat muscle and skin browned by the sun except for the pale shadow around the hem of his jeans. His belly was hot as he panted under Dean's touch, and the older boy couldn't help but feel the same way, as he felt Sam's blood pumping beneath his hand.

"We don't have to do, ya know..." Sam assured him, as he pulled at him, "Just...lay here, with me."

The room was so hot that Dean could hardly breathe, and all the loneliness that had been pooling in his stomach like a hot brick was suddenly crying out for someone to touch him, to want him.

Sam looked up, long hair in his eyes as he waited for an answer, when suddenly there came a knock at the door.

Dean's hand flew off of Sam as if burned, and opened his mouth to say something before thinking better of it, and turned to see who it was.

"Hey baby boy." said a female voice. Mrs. Dentist filled the doorway, all shiny red lipstick and large breasts that jutted through her expensive silk blouse. "I told the folks I was spending the night at Holly's, you busy?"

"Um..." Dean stammered, leaning against the doorframe, though whether to balance himself or keep her out, Sam couldn't tell, "Kind of, what's up?"

She lifted a brown paper bag and lifted out a plate. "I got you pie."

Sam pulled his knees up to his chest, feeling his stomach twist as he heard the trap shut.

Dean did his best, gesturing feebly at the stack of "homework" he was supposed to be doing, but his eyes strayed to her shirt, and the way she bit her lip as she smiled coyly up at him.

"Your brother can sleep in the car, right?" she said, as she stepped into the room and picked up a blanket from the nearest bed.

Sam looked up at Dean, his eyes pleading for her to be sent away.

But Dean was too confused by all the sudden demands being made on him, and was too slow to react when Mrs. Dentist tossed Sam the keys, the blanket, and began to push him out the door. "Don't worry," she said viciously, "You can have him when I'm done with him."

The door slammed, and as the lock turned and the blinds fell to obscure the room, Sam fell slowly to his knees, clutching the blanket to his mouth, utterly betrayed.

"Hey baby," she said, her voice clearly heard thru the cracked window, "Did you miss me?"

Though Dean looked a little scared of her, showing up unannounced and all, he quickly got back into character and smiled, putting his hands on her hips. "Sure I did."

She smiled, and playfully pushed him onto the bed. "I've been wanting this," she said, as she got on her knees and unfastened his pants, "For so long."

Sam tried to look away, tried to stop the tears as she unloosed his erection and smiled at it appraisingly, her red lips stretching hungrily. "You were ready for me I see."

_That was for me_, Sam thought, the pavement scraping his knees as he sat helplessly.

She took it into her mouth, and he let out a little noise of surprise, his cheeks flushing as he willed himself to keep his hands at his side. She looked up at him as she worked, satisfied at his response, at the way he shivered and strained against her.

Pulling his pants off and tossing them on the floor, she stood up before him and pulled off her clothes, letting the silk blouse drift to the carpet as she climbed up to straddle him.

"Do you know what kind of pie I gotcha?" she said, teasing his cock with her wet pussy. On the bed, the little plastic dish sat nearby, and she reached out to it.

He still had his hands beside him, not wanting to hold her though his body clearly wanted her, and Sam wondered pitifully if maybe Dean would kick her out at the last second, would realize she wouldn't really make him happy.

Poking a hole in the pie wedge, she pulled out a long, sticky red finger and began to draw a circle around her nipple. Dean watched it, inches from his face, his cock aching to be inside of her as she rubbed against the tip.

"Sour cherry." she said. And drawing his mouth to her breast, she came down, his cock plunging the full length inside of her, and finally Dean caved, his arms wrapped around her like a drowning man.

Outside, tears spilled down Sam's cheeks, the radio wailing in the background as he felt his heart break.


	2. Sam loses it

Boobs flipped to the next page, putting a hand over her heart as she read aloud. "I am promised to the king's son, should he defeat you in single combat."

"Then I shall not give him that honor," said Braceface, "For my ship sails on the morrow."

"Take me with you oh pirate king!"

"I cannot," said Braceface, tipping Boobs backwards in a swooning embrace, "I am cursed to wander the seas, never to know true happiness."

"Say it ain't so!" said Boobs, placing the back of her hand on her forehead.

"Go, wed the prince," said Braceface, closing her eyes and tossing her hair back dramatically, "Forget our love."

"Okay, then she takes off her shirt," Boobs said, skimming the text, "Wow, the typos in here are incredible, 'and he licked her pink posse lips'."

"Whatever, unhook your bra and keep reading."

* * *

><p>Dean looked down at the girl. Ginger was gangly, blonde, and had never so much as held a boy's hand. And she had an enormous crush on Sam, from sitting behind him in class.<p>

"Will he like me?" she asked wide-eyed, frankly intimidated by Dean's abs as he wiped a streak of blood off with his face with the end of his shirt. He'd gotten a request from a local hunter to dispose of a corpse, and had completely forgotten to check in a mirror before heading out to do yardwork.

"Babe, he's gonna fall all over you." said assured her, smiling as he lead her around the back of the house. pulling the lawnmower behind him. He'd woken up that morning hungover and guilty, deciding that the best thing for Sam was to get laid and have done with all this big brother crush crap. A little asking around of the neighborhood kids had led him to this girl.

"Where is he?" she asked, chewing nervously on a lock of hair.

"I asked him to wait outside, once you guys are in the house, I'll start cutting the grass, and that way nobody will hear you."

She blushed at the thought, which Dean found heartening. Sam needed something innocent in his life.

"You're a nice girl." said Dean.

She looked down at her shoes. "I'm nothing special."

"No really, you seem like a good kid, you're..." he trailed off, looking at the blood caked under his fingernails, "...clean."

"What's that song?" she asked, as the high keening whine of a harmonica drifted thru the air, partly drowned out by the sprinkler system.

Dean recognized it. He'd awoke before dawn to help that other hunter (the girl had left long before), and almost tripped over Sam, curled up on the sidewalk outside the door. He pushed the thought away, it wasn't the first time Sam had spent the night outside during a date.

"Wow..." she whispered as they rounded the corner. Dean followed her gaze, and something clutched at his gut. Sam was lying belly-down in the grass next to the sprinkler, dressed in the jean cutoffs and tattered white undershirt from yesterday, facing away and so not having heard their approach. His feet were kicked up in the air, the water spraying over him so that his hair hung close to his neck in sticky ringlets, his shirt see-through along the curve of his back.

The song he played was unbearably sad, and it made Dean shiver. Not for feeling guilty about last night, but because women would never look at him the way the girl was looking at Sam right now. Sam was the intelligent, promising young man nursing a secret hurt, the boy you took home and introduced to your parents. Dean was the slam-piece. The comparison left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"What's he playing?"

"Old blues song," Dean sniffed, the old loneliness creeping back, "_Dark is the Night, Cold is the Ground_."

Ginger looked up at him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said, swiping at his eyes before reaching in his pants pocket for a strip of condoms, "Better get him before he changes his mind."

"You sure?"

Dean pushed her forward, a little harder than necessary, and walked back toward the front lawn. "You'll be fine," he said, "I'll check on him in half an hour, that's about 28 more minutes than he'll need."

Stuffing the condoms hastily in her purse, she walked over to Sam and held out a tentative hand, afraid her voice might crack if she said anything. But he didn't need her to speak. He'd been expecting her.

* * *

><p>Ginger led him into the bedroom, twisting her fingers nervously as she alternately smiled at him and her mirror, glancing to see if her reflection was okay.<p>

"Should we...?" he said, reaching out to remove her shirt.

"Oh, um," she said, crossing her arms protectively over her flat chest, "I was thinking, could you, um..." she trailed off, her cheeks reddening as she searched for the words. "Sorry, I've been thinking about this a lot."

"It's okay, whatever you wanna do." he said hurriedly.

"I've like run this thru my head a thousand times." she said, hands gesticulating like a director trying to frame a shot.

Sam looked over at her bookcase, the top shelf lined with 'wedding' novels ranging from _Sense and __Sensibility_ to_ The Greek Billionaire and His Bartered Bride_. He'd seen the latter in the grocery store once, they all ended with a big Baptist wedding and the hero foregoing the lothario/cowboy/vigilante lifestyle to become a podiatrist.

"Okay, well, I was going to get under the sheet," she said pointing to the bed, "And we'd turn out the lights, and I would pretend to be asleep, and you would just sort of walk into the room as if you were going to, to wake me." she stammered.

Sam was a little confused as to why he had to pretend anything, but he did as she asked, and watched as she flipped off the light and lept into her bed. Turning to leave, he went thru the only other door, her bathroom, and gave her a minute to "fall asleep".

He caught himself in the mirror, and stared down at all the hair products by her sink. They were neat and ordered according to size, though he noted that a little paper wrapping lay on the edge, pointedly out of place. He brought it up to his face, and realized it was a perfume sample.

Should he take off his clothes here? Would she laugh when she saw him naked? What did she expect him to do?

He thought back to all the times he'd walked in on Dean at the end of a date, how easy he made it look. When asked how it alll worked, he'd always told Sam, "You'll figure it out." as if girls had a Rubik's Cube between their legs.

Counting backwards from sixty, he clicked off the bathroom light as well, and opened the door.

The sun was high outside, so that he could make out her outline beneath the sheet, flat on her back with her hands folded over her stomach, hair fanned out against the pillow. For a second he wanted to run out of the house, to never go back to school and face her again, but he wiped his sweaty hands against his shorts and closed the door behind him.

Sinking in the bed beside her, he noticed the perfume, a sharp scent made for a much older, more frightening woman. He looked to her face for any sign of what to do next, but she was intent on playing her part.

His fingers shook a little as he unbuttoned his clothes, folding everything neatly before placing them on the carpet. And then, light as an ant seeking a window crack to escape through, he slid his hand under the sheet.

She shivered at his touch, though she tried not to flinch as he made a path down her stomach, towards the V of her sex. Carefully, he felt in the dark, for the flower between her sweaty thighs, and finding it at last he sunk a finger inside.

She made a little noise, and he turned to see her biting down on her lip, and he took his hand away. Cupping her cheek, he leaned close and hovered over her mouth, wishing she would just open her eyes already, give him some instruction.

She didn't respond to his kiss right away, though her hands moved to hold him, pulling him close in a timid embrace.

"It's on the dresser." she whispered thru her teeth, still keeping her eyes closed. Sam looked over and saw that she'd laid out a condom nearby.

"What, right now?" he asked. Dean's description of dates had always started with lots of necking and groping and hair-pulling and STUFF, not this vaguely creepy dead-girl vibe.

But he was nice a boy, and did as he was told.

* * *

><p>Dean checked the time. If Sam wasn't well on his way to becoming a man now he'd buy the kid a beer for lasting this long. Keeping the lawnmower running to hide his footsteps, he walked up to the bedroom window.<p>

"Atta boy." he whispered, proud that Sam hadn't spooked at the last second. The bed faced away so that all he could see was Sam's brown shoulders peaking above the sheet, the girl's hands running thru his hair.

Sam's hand reached down between her legs again, searching for her sex with a wet finger as he kissed her, moving down her neck and letting her guide his mouth to her breast. Her legs wound around him at his touch, the wet heat of his lips on her as he explored her body.

Dean felt a sudden pang of jealousy. Not against the girl, but the whole set-up, the well-furnished room, their mutual innocence, the frickin' butterflies in the soft summer breeze, the fact that he was standing by for emotional support. His first woman had been a 15th birthday gift from John, ten years older, Kortney with a K, in the motel, and she'd spent the entire hour watching her show on the TV across the room.

When he had managed to finish, he'd looked down at her, waiting for some magical declaration to usher him into manhood, and all she'd said was, "What, ya want me to moan and tell ya how big your dick is?"

Back inside the house, Ginger scrabbled at Sam's back, saying something Dean could not hear, and Sam sat up straight to guide something between her legs. She had her eyes closed, she was squeamish about the mechanics of the act and couldn't bear to watch, and as Sam entered her, she gave a little noise of surprise.

Grabbing his hips, she stopped him. He had only gone in an inch, and swallowing she slowly pushed him inside her a little more, backtracking each time, her mouth open as she shuddered with the size of him.

When Sam was all the way in, he steadied himself, placing his palms on her shoulder blades, and with fear and trepidation leaned over to whisper something.

* * *

><p>"I'm close." he said.<p>

Her eyes popped open. "What?"

He felt immediately guilty, why didn't anyone warn him this would happen?

"But you..." she trailed off. _ You just got here_, she meant to say. She had developed a very complicated internal narrative of how this day was supposed to happen, hours of moaning and intertwining hands and...magic. She had even managed to play out her first time with such a beautiful boy, but apparently no one else had read her script.

Hardening a little at this disappointment, she pushed the thought down and put her arms around his back. "It's okay. Go ahead."

Sam gave another experimental thrust, slowly pulling almost all the way out before going back in again, trying not to hurt her, slowly, slowly, his chest shuddering with the effort.

She buried his face in her neck so he wouldn't have to see her grit her teeth. All the dialogue she'd ever read in her books came back, and she closed her eyes as she borrowed their words. "You feel so good inside of me."

She dug her nails into his back. "Go faster."

He broke out into a sweat, kissing her as he picked up speed, pumping into her slick, tight rosebud, his hands reaching to balance himself on the headboard.

"All of it, I want all of you." she said.

Wanting to make him happy, she matched his panting breath, her voice getting higher and higher as she felt him swell inside her, saying his name between kisses, his body ricocheting off of hers so hard that the glass shook in the window frame. Putting her mouth to his ear, she whispered, "Sam?"

"Yeah?" he croaked.

She clenched down on his cock possessively. All else fails, she _would_ get her money line. "Tell me you love me."

* * *

><p>Dean was about to walk away, when the lawnmower ran out of gas and the engine cut off, so that Sam's voice was the only noise in the yard.<p>

"...I love you."

His stomach turned to ice. Dean knew there a chance of Sam binding himself to this girl (didn't that always happen with the first?), but for the first time he felt shut out by his little brother, whether he'd meant to do it or not. _ Dark is the Night, Cold is the Ground_, he thought, the song revisiting him as he stood, the house locked up against him.

Their voices began to rise in unison, and Dean walked, ran away, before they finished. Some things could not be unheard.

* * *

><p>Sam lay beside her, arm around her neck as she traced little circles on his chest.<p>

"That was...thank you." he said politely.

"Oh hey..." she said noncommittally.

"I like your perfume." he lied.

"Oh yeah, my cousin gave me two samples of it," she said, eager to talk, "It's a really expensive brand, I figured I'd use one for my senior prom, and the other...the other for my wedding night."

They looked at each other, part sadness and amusement, as if to say, Look at us, playing at grown-ups.

"So did you...?"

"What?" she asked, her expression a second too late as she realized his question, "Oh. Oh yeah. Totally. You were AMAZING."

His head clonked against the headboard. _She hadn't_, he thought.

"It's okay!" she insisted, "I don't mind."

"No it's not okay." he said, pulling a hand thru his hair. This was not how he'd pictured losing his virginity, he'd imagined something with more actual sex and less guilt and certainly fewer kitten posters.

"...do you wanna try again?" she asked quietly.

He would need some time to recover, but what then? What if he screwed up a second time?

"Hold on, lemme...I'll be right back." he said, jumping off the bed and checking outside the window.

* * *

><p>She cuddled into the mattress as Sam talked to someone thru the bugscreen, cold without his body to warm her. Maybe his older brother was giving him advice?<p>

"Okay," said Sam as he slid back beside her, "He's coming, it's all good."

She blinked. "Who's coming?"

The air changed, and in the doorframe leaned an older boy, sunburnt and sweaty from the day's labor, arms crossed and giving her a wicked smile. "I hear you got a problem."

She looked at Sam, panicked. "He knows what he's doing." Sam assured her.

"Um..." she stammered, hugging her knees, not sure if she was ready to have two notches on her bedpost in the same day. She looked Dean up and down, the grass clippings on his jeans, the hipflask hanging from his belt. _ The Bad Boy with a Heart of Gold_, she thought, placing him at last.

Stepping inside the room and closing the door behind him, never breaking her frightened gaze, Dean pulled off his filthy t-shirt one-handed, his chest lined with glistening muscle as he placed his hands on the end of the bed, giving her some distance.

"It's okay," he said quietly, "Pants stay on," he inched forward a little, his eyes sparkling in the gloom, "Unless you say otherwise."

Dean waited her out, for a no or a shake of the head. When she finally looked back at him he saw the curious hunger in her eyes, the rabbit wondering what the wolf's teeth would feel like. Here was the man for role, she thought.

Wordlessly, he climbed into the bed.


	3. OC Threesome with the Boys

"Madame, I can no longer deny myself of your virtues," said Braceface, reading from the book, "Tonight we become as one."

"Oh that I were two women. My heart says no, but my body says yes." said Boobs, giving a dramatic pelvic thrust.

"What're you, a stripper?" asked Braceface.

"I totally should be," said Boobs, "I'd be expensive."

"Whatever."

"Fi' dolla, fi' dolla! I love you long time!"

"Shut up and read," said Braceface, pushing her onto the bed, "The next chapter's good."

* * *

><p>Dean pressed the heel of his hand to her swollen sex, the sheet still between them. "Sore?" he asked.<p>

She nodded.

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth just below her belly button. She shivered at the contact, his smile spreading against her navel as he watched the look on her face. "Got a little knot there?" he asked.

She'd never of it like that, the dark, aching pocket that her fingers could never reach, but she nodded, yes.

He lay on top of her, his belt buckle grinding against her sex as she eyed him nervously, Sam remaining nearby in case she needed him.

Sam watched as Dean tilted one way and kissed her, slowly at first, not rushing for a response, resting his forehead against hers so she could breath. After a couple of seconds, she tilted her chin up to him. _More_.

This time he took the initiative, swiveling against her as they kisssed, until she mirrored him in a dance he'd done a thousand times, and when he grabbed her hair to give her a lovebite below the ear, she cried out.

Under the sheet, her knees tented between his legs, still locked together but pushing him up closer. This time she forced open his mouth, grabbing his hair ferociously as his hands met at the small of her back and arched her upwards, her body hungry for something she didn't have a name for yet.

Feeling she was ready, he kissed her in the hollow of her throat, his lips brushing the length of her as he looked up at her, pulling the sheet down away with him, her breath catching at the cold air.

She lay frozen on the bed, her legs bound together, not certain she would like what came next. But he sat up, his hands on her knees, gently prying them apart as he ran his thumbnails down the inside of her thighs, his breath hot as a thirsty bloodhound against her cunt.

"Sam..." she whimpered, reaching out for him. He came over and held her face, kissing her, distracting her. As much as she had shed her ice queen act, she hadn't gotten around the invasive nature of sex yet, and needed one boy for the brain, for the chaste little girl in her head, while the other boy wore her like a feedbag.

"Shh..." he said, tracing a finger over her cheekbone, her mouth open as she held her breath, afraid what noise might escape. Dean had to fight to keep her legs apart as he worked her with his mouth, her hips undulating beneath his tongue.

Dean's decision to help out had been a combination of family loyalty and the need to show off. But as satisfying as it was to have the girl writhe beneath him, it was strange taking another guy's sloppy seconds. She'd only had Sam for a few minutes, but as he went down on her, parting the soft pink petals of her with his mouth, he tasted the young boy as well, sharp and familiar, and his mind wandered to last night.

While she lay against the pillow, fingers raking Dean's hair, Sam looked on, taking a minute to appreciate the gleaming muscle in the older boy's back, the way the hips connected differently than a girl's would. The old heat returned to him, what was wrong with him, hadn't he just had a mind-blowing orgasm like thirty minutes ago?

Dean peaked up at her, and seeing that she was good to go further, he put a finger in his mouth, his other hand still keeping her knee away. She was still tight, and he doubted he could get away with a second finger even if she asked for it, not without hurting her.

She strained against this new combination, her hips lifting so high off the bed that he had to push her back down to keep her in place, and for the first time, she laughed, like she was finally in on the joke.

"You okay?" Sam whispered in her ear.

She smiled, a wide, drunken cat grin that split her face. And putting her feet up on Dean's shoulders, she pushed him away and reached out for his belt, grabbing it til her fingers sunk down to the wiry hairs behind his zipper.

His eyebrows shot up, smiling and daring her to do it. She bit down on her lip, the breath shuddering thru her teeth in an impatient "fffff", but the word she wanted was wedged behind years of chiffon dresses and princess tea sets and pink marble palaces, and it took a while to make it's way to the light.

"What?" he asked.

Her cheeks and mouth were red as if she'd been eating strawberries, but she was tired of sweetness and keeping her legs crossed and being a nice girl. The dinner bell in her belly was going DING A LING A LING A LING, and she was hungry for meat.

"Fuck. Me."

Dean let out a "ha!" and the Winchesters nearly gave each a high-five.

"Sammy boy, hold her up."

Sam sat up on his knees, grabbing her so her back was to him, and snaked his hands under her knees. She was surprised, even frightened, at how easily he did it, that Sam was strong enough to restrain in this awkward position without any apparent effort.

"Here, put your arms around me." he told her, and she pressed her right cheek against his left as her arms encircled him, her stomach churning in a roller coaster climb as Dean shucked his pants.

"It's okay," Sam whispered in her ear, "Kiss me."

She closed her eyes and turned toward him, embarrassed by her exposure and a little afraid of being invaded again, but it was too late to stop now.

"Look up," Sam whispered, registering her fear, "Stay on me."

Her eyes widened a little as the older boy entered her, but she had been ready this time, and it didn't hurt as much as she'd expected. Smiling up at Sam, the beautiful one, the boy whose initials she'd been tracing on her desk for the past month, she gave a little sigh and let their kiss carry her mind to a nicer place while Dean fed the hungry little mouth on the other end.

Years later, he would remember this, the softness of her eyes, the ribbon of sweat along her temple as he covered her burning up-turned face with kisses. Time slowed for a few seconds, and the world fell away as she melted against him.

"Sam..." she gasped, "I'm..."

He covered her mouth, breathing with her as she tried to focus, zeroing in like a tornado standing in place, but his eyes traveled to the other boy. He would have reached out for him, but there was a girl in the way. There always would be, he realized.

Dean's face pressed against the other side of her, his hands overlapping Sam's as he worked to keep her legs in place. Up to this point it had been easy to maintain control, her room was plastered with cutesy motivational posters, and the eyes of so many sincere kittens on his ass kept his head in the game. But the smell of the younger boy was close by, his hands on his as he worked deep inside the girl, trying to hit that knot, pressing against the back of her thighs, and last night's kiss came back to him.

"Say my name." Dean whispered to her.

She did so. And inhaling that summer scent of books and blood and gunpowder, her voice morphed in his mind, to that of a boy's, and he sped up, anticipating her climax as the brothers crushed her between their bodies.

With a final shuddering look at Sam, she went limp and fell over onto the mattress, extricating Dean from her and curling into a ball, twitching merrily.

"And that," Dean said, as the latex condom came off with a snap, "Is the Winchester Special."

Sam put a comforting hand on her back, to make sure she was okay, and then looked up at Dean.

They must have been thinking the same thing. The girl was not enough. It changed nothing.

Sam moved, the question on his face the same as last night, but Dean pushed him back so that he landed flat on his back.

"Boy," he said, his smile easy, "Clearly you ain't been fucked enough."

He leaned over to the girl, whose eyes were still rolling in their sockets. "Mooooooore?" he asked.

She nodded, giving him a look like, what, are you stupid or something?

He smacked her ass approvingly, as Sam looked up at him in dismay. "I need a few minutes to rest," Dean said to her, "Til then, I recommend Reverse Cowgirl."


	4. I Wanna Make a Baby

The girl took a long draft from Dean's flask before handing it to Sam, like a redneck tea ceremony, her naked legs wrapped around his waist as he rested his back against the headboard. The kiss burned as she opened his mouth, her hands leaving sweaty prints on the plaster, and Dean sat in the corner reading _Parade_ magazine while he waited his turn.

"You...need to...slow down..." Sam managed, before she kissed him again and rode him into a whimpering ragdoll.

An hour with the brothers had turned the girl a hundred and eighty degrees, from pretty pretty princess to a wet, cock-thirsty, bossy little bitch whose goal in life was to hop on Sam's cock until she'd rung every last drop from him, using Dean as a palate cleanser whenever the younger boy needed time to massage some life into his poor manhood.

Dean smiled and tossed the magazine on the floor. "C'mere rodeo queen." he said, smacking her ass and pushing her onto her back, slamming into her as pinned her hands to the bed. Her neck tasted like the younger boy, and he inhaled the boy saltiness, the way Sam always smelled after a long run or target practice.

She had quickly become a proxy for one boy to the other. Trading her back and forth, never again taking her at the same time, their scents lingered on her, her body merely the blank movie screen that one boy would project his fantasy against once he entered her.

She was open enough now to handle rougher treatment, and insisted that Sam do all sorts of heavy lifting, now that she knew how strong he was. Their second session had her up against the wall, knocking over picture frames, toppling paperweights as she cleared her desk to plant her ass down and swing a leg over his shoulder, crashing into the floor when Sam's knees gave under him finally.

She laughed on top of him; now that the initial pressure of losing her virginity was gone, she was enjoying herself.

"Want me to stick a finger up your ass?" she asked, forcing a finger into his mouth. It still tasted like Dean, and he bit down playfully.

"Come here." he said, grabbing her hair and flipping her over on the carpet. He left little red bites all up and down her throat, tasting the other boy on her, tagging her so Dean would know he'd been there.

"Sam..." she whispered as he squirmed on top of her, giving her the beginning of some truly legendary rugburn, and in his mind he felt someone else's hands pressed against his back.

Sam proved to be an attentive lover, learning to move with her, never staying in the same place for long but always trying to keep her happy, keep her laughing.

Dean watched them over the top of the magazine. He hadn't come so far today, a mark of his experience and, frankly, lack of attraction toward the girl beyond a passing 'meh', and his cock lay against his stomach, peering up at him with an inquisitive eye. _ So what does it for you these days?_

When it was his turn to take over, he pushed her stomach-down on the bed, reaching around with his right hand to find her little pink buzzer before entering from behind. She arched upwards, loving the crushing weight of him on top, and he could close his eyes and let his mind drift. He and Sam would be in the woods later that day, ostensibly to hunt.

His younger brother was a different creature with a gun in his hands, older. Frightening. Like a safer version of John, one that wouldn't try to kill him if Dean made a pass at him, like that awful night before his fifteenth birthday.

_"Clearly you ain't been fucked enough."_ John had said, before calling that hooker. They never spoken of it again, and Dean had almost forgotten until last night.

They had hours of summer daylight left, plenty of time to exhaust themselves and bury their desire between her legs before they had to head back home. She never noticed, she was officially tall enough to ride the Cockmeat Roller Coaster and her vagina was screaming WHEEEEE all the way down. If the two hot guys nailing her had some personal angst to process, she didn't feel the need for them to share.

Dean found himself hitting the flask more, trying to numb his erection. He chalked up the attraction to Sam to the general three-way horniness, but wanted to make sure he didn't go so far as to think about his brother while coming inside the girl. Life was too messed as is.

The girl examined herself in the mirror, fingering the hickies with a mixture of horror and glee.

"Oh my gosh," she said, "My friends at school are going to think I'm a _skank_."

"I'm gonna hit the shower." Sam said, and indeed the room reeked of sex. The boys couldn't wait to get out in the fresh air again.

She lay on the bed, one ankle on top on her knee as she dangled Dean's underwear between her toes. "Does this mean you're heading out soon?" she asked.

"Probably," said Dean, walking over to snatch the boxers away, "We got a job to do later tonight."

She stretched, her arms reaching over her head as she watched him, eyeing his bouncing cock. "Got time for one more?"

He held up the plastic snakeskin of condom wrappers. "All out I'm afraid."

"You really think another ten minutes is going to do you in?"

He snorted. It suddenly wasn't as much fun with Sam out of the room.

"Please?"

He smiled. He never could turn a girl down, and he could always pull out if he had to. "Aren't you tired?" he asked as he climbed on top.

"You kidding?" she said, her breath catching a little as he entered her, "I feel like running laps in the middle of oncoming traffic."

He went slow at first, allowing himself to indulge as her young wet pussy massaged his aching cock. Having a condom on all day was like putting a balloon over your tongue while eating steak, you might be fed afterwards, but...

"I feel bad for the next guy you date." he said.

"Why?"

"Cuz now you have impossible standards."

She laughed. "Don't you guys live nearby?"

"Yeah, but we're not staying, Dad's got us leaving town after spring break."

Her smile faltered a little. "But you'll be graduating this year, what're you gonna do afterwards?"

"Same as usual," he said, "Help my dad, keep Sam out of trouble."

She bit her lip and asked, in a much smaller voice, "Couldn't you stay?"

He kissed her. He'd heard that line about ten thousand times in his short career so far. "You're sweet. Sorry, but this ain't my scene."

She flattened her hands against his hips, moving him at a different angle. "Why not? It's a big town, and everyone likes you, there'd be a job somewhere."

He kissed her again, wanting to shut her up before Sam came back and heard this sentimental side of her.

"I've never met anyone like you," she continued, "Even if you went away for...for a while, would you come back to see me?"

"Would you wait for me?" he said, only half joking.

"I know you must have had a hard life," she said, "I could make it nicer."

Sam would be back soon. He picked up the pace, feeling her about to get close. She crossed her ankles behind his back, tilting him in a little deeper.

"You don't have to be alone." she said in a breathy baby voice.

She was so warm inside, so inviting...

"It's okay, you don't have to hold back," she said, her mouth open against his ear, her poisonous flower closing down on his cock, "I wanna feel it inside me."

He closed his eyes and sucked in a lungful air, just a little longer and she'd be done, he could roll off of her, until she said something no girl had offered...

"Dean," she whispered, "Let me have your baby."

Something clicked, the sincerity in her voice, the comfort and simplicity that her world could provide, the image of a smaller version of himself in a happy home, and the utterly selfish idea that he'd have been the only cock inside her.

"I..." he said, her hand on his cheek, giving him permission, and something broke inside him.

It didn't take long. Three strokes and he was crashing into her, filling her 'til it ran down her asscrack and onto the sheets, and still he still he went on, hammering into her tight cunt as she said his name, while Sam stood on the other side of the door, hand on the knob, the blood pounding in his ears.

Sam held his breath. Several minutes later, he couldn't get her last words or the sound of Dean's cries out of his head. He didn't think he ever would.

Afterwards, Dean lay with his face in her hair, immediately regretting it. _Wow that was so not worth it._

"Oh hey you." she said.

Dean looked up. There stood Sam, already dressed, staring at the spreading stain on the bed.

"What did you do?" he asked.

"We..." Dean started.

Sam took a step back, like he would be sick. Like he'd been punched in the gut. "It's late."

"Yeah," said Dean, relieved at the reminder, "We gotta go."

"Where you guys going tonight?" she asked as Dean scrambled for his pants.

Sam watched his brother with murder in his heart. "We have to go shoot something."


	5. Angry Forest Sex

"You cad!" shouted Boobs, brandishing a plastic butter knife, "You've broken my heart!"

"Ah, fair maiden, how you remind me of my dear mother! She too," said Braceface, grasping her wrist until the knife fell, "Was beautiful in her wrath."

"Ew, did he just call his mom hot?"

"I don't think-"

"Dude's got a Weed-ah-puss complex."

"It's Ed-a-puss, you pinhead." she said, kneeling on the floor.

Boobs hiked up her skirt. "Watch the teeth."

* * *

><p>Sam emptied the clip into the target, the bullseye black with lead shot. "Were you...<em>trying<em> to her pregnant?"

The boys stood facing opposite directions, Dean stooping to collect old bullet casings. "She's not gonna get pregnant."

Sam ground his teeth. "Gimme the 12-gauge."

"That's a big gun."

"Give it." Sam said.

"You'll wanna lean it against a tree-" Dean suggested, too late as Sam took a shot and then howled in pain as the kickback wrenched his shoulder.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Told ya that would happen."

Sam crumpled to his knees, clutching his right arm, too embarrassed to look up.

"You gonna let me look at it?"

Wincing, Sam grabbed his collar and yanked it aside to expose the bruise, daring him to say 'I told you so'.

The sun was low on the horizon, so that Sam's face was all soft pinks and shadows, his eyes reproachful under a spray of hair, and Dean hesitated at the sudden resemblance to John.

"Look I didn't plan it," Dean explained, "We were messing around, and we started talking and it just..."

"Do you want a family?" Sam asked, letting go of his shirt.

"Dude, she _asked_ me, I mean try and think what a turn-on that is? To know that you _could_ get a chick pregnant, that she _wants_ it?" And at Sam's look of incomprehension, he added, "Kid, you don't know anything."

Sam raised the gun over his head, like he wanted to hit something, sick and tired of being treated like a baby. "Do you have..._any_ idea how this makes me feel?"

Dean laughed. "Yeah, come back in ten years when you've got _real_ feelings."

He was slow to react. Sam knocked him over and into the nearest tree, his bony fists balled up in Dean's shirt. "Some day you're gonna have to treat me with respect."

Dean looked down at this new creature, this beautiful face bent in anger like a twisted tree root. "Are you gonna go back to her?" Sam demanded, "Next month, next year, five years from now?"

"What, you think I can't have a normal life, that women won't have me?" Dean shot back, and it really felt like Dad all over again.

Sam leaned in. "How much money ya got?"

"...what?"

"Couple hundred? Little more if you sold the guns?"

"I don't...what are you talking about...?" Dean asked, faltering as Sam loosened his grip and began to run a hand down towards his belt.

"None of those girls are waiting for you to come home." he said, running his fingers inside of Dean's shirt along his belly.

Dean pushed against him, but Sam pushed back, his left arm flung against Dean's chest, his teeth bared. "What have you got to offer them?" Sam asked thru his teeth, "You're not the good neighbor. You're not the boy next door. You're not a pair of khakis."

His hand finally made it's made into Dean's pocket, digging down, fingertips scraping his cock thru the fabric. "All you've got...is this," he said, holding up a handful of spent 9mm shells, letting them fall thru his fingers, "And they won't buy you a picket fence."

Dean smacked his hand away, sending the rest of the shells flying, and pushed Sam to the ground. He lay on his elbows, his knees apart, and it took all of Dean's self-control not to jump him right then.

"Please..." Sam pleaded, tears springing to his eyes, looking up at his brother and seeing the parade of ghostly women behind him, all itching for an idea of Dean, a watered-down, cheapened, polluted man, dead to the brother who needed him so desperately.

Dean looked down and saw two possible men in Sam-a good man, with a good woman at his side and a future to be proud of, and on the other hand, John's heir. Too much pushing in one direction would send Sam inevitably from one side to the other.

But he ached for the younger boy, and he lowered himself into Sam's waiting arms, coiling around the older boy until they fell gently to the ground together.

Their kiss was feverish with longing, their bodies moving together gracefully in a dance they'd only been rehearsing with that girl earlier. But Dean restrained himself, not letting himself give in entirely, thinking that, if he could get away with as little as possible, this madness would be over with and they could get back to their normal lives. If he was really good, he could grind Sam to his climax and they wouldn't even have to get naked.

But Sam was way ahead of him. "Make love to me." he whispered in his ear.

Dean would have said no, but the sun had fallen behind the trees, and these sorts of things are always easier in the dark. "Take off your clothes."

Sam began to tear off his shirt, but Dean stopped him. "Stand up."

He did so, his body a burning silhouette against the dusk.

Dean knelt before him, gently took both hands in his, and said, "Here. Hold onto me."

* * *

><p>It was right before Dean's fifteenth birthday when Sam had gone to spend the night at a friend's house, and John had come back drunk, having just argued with a local psychic named Lola and deciding to go straight to bed. He smelled like an ashtray, but he moved like a missile, directed and powerful, his back straight beneath his leather jacket. <em> A general never takes off his coat,<em> Dean thought.

Dean had longed for him for years. Not because he admired him (though he certainly did) or because he was gay (which he knew he wasn't). No, rather because John was the only man he'd ever feared, and it sent an electric thrill thru him whenever they worked together.

Dean pretended to be asleep on the couch, the TV glowing with a late-night cop drama, as he waited for John to fall asleep. And when he thought it was safe, he crept into the bedroom.

John had taken the bottle to bed with him, and if he wasn't asleep he certainly wasn't going anywhere. Dean lifted the blanket at the foot of the bed, and crept underneath.

John smiled, purring, "Change your mind Lola?"

He reached for the hair of whoever was unzipping his pants, but two hands reached out and knocked them aside.

"Okay, I can be lazy." he said.

A mouth came down on his cock, warm and sweet. "Fuck..."

He worked his cock with his tongue, his lips closing down like he hadn't eaten for days, savoring the taste.

"Damn baby..." John whispered.

In the next room, the TV detective called his partner on the phone. "Can you see him?" he asked.

"He's getting closer." replied the TV.

Dean took all of John in, running the tip of tongue along the bottom, pushing his cock into the roof of his mouth.

"Closer now..." said the TV.

"Baby you're gonna make me..."

* * *

><p>Sam yanked Dean's head away. "Not yet." he said.<p>

Dean had hoped it wouldn't come to this. He didn't want to ruin Sam for another woman, for the good life he was supposed to have.

"Okay, lay down." he said, spitting in his hand. "I don't wanna hurt you," he said, about to give the oldest line in the book, but hoping this little concession would be enough, "So I'm just going to put it in...a little bit."

Sam nodded, biting his lip, wondering if this was how the girl had felt with him earlier today.

They kissed, inhaling together as Dean pushed, and Sam shuddered, smiling at this new victory. "You're...really hard."

Dean grit his teeth, wondering how fast he could do this, and reached down for Sam's cock, swollen and wet.

But Sam had been running on fumes all day, it would take a long time to get him off, and Dean didn't think he had the stamina for it. After a while the younger boy reached around and pressed his hands on his sides

"You're not gonna hurt me." he whispered, and he pushed the older boy all the way, up the hilt, his chest expanding as the older boy filled him.

Dean really didn't want to have be an asshole. He told himself Sam would be better off without him when this all over. Like chucking rocks at the dog who followed you home, sometimes there's nothing for it.

"So you wanna be fucked?"

Sam blinked, at the cruelty in his voice. "What?"

Dean rolled Sam over, grabbing a fistful of hair and pushing him facedown into the dirt. "You want it like this?"

Sam flushed. "Wait, what are you..."

The words dried up as his body was opened again, his mouth salivating at this new pain. Part of him was humiliated as he felt those strong hands grab his hips and drive into him, taking him like some white trash gutterslut, the other part of him crying out in ecstasy as the boy used him, stretched him out, the man to ride him hard and break his spirit.

"Don't...stop." he gasped, a great hand reaching to keep his head down on the ground.

Dean flipped him on his back again, remembering that awful night years ago. When John had discovered who was really was in his bed, he'd sent Dean flying across the room, uninterested in protests or explanations, and given him the beating of a lifetime. And he took it too, didn't open his mouth the whole time, even when the blood began to run into the carpet.

"Dean..." but a hand covered his mouth.

"That's it," he whispered, the other hand reaching for Sam's cock, remembering John's last words before loosening his belt buckle, "Don't...speak."

The hand stifled his cries as he came, so hard and so long he thought he would lose his mind, biting down on Dean's fingers and wishing he had the words to fit fifteen years worth of longing in a single endless moment.

Afterwards, he smiled. This was how it would be from now on, this was how they were meant to spend their lives together...

...and then Dean stood up and spat in his face.

"There," he said, standing up to fasten his belt-buckle, "Now you're fucked."

Sam looked at him, a single tear falling down his cheek. "Dean..."

The older boy walked away, collecting their things. It was true then, it had all been for nothing. They had no future together...

...not unless Sam did something to prove his love.

Something stirred in him, spreading like ink in trouble water, and he reached for the shotgun.

Overhead, clouds gathered, and far away lightning licked at the earth in the distant corn fields.

"Storm's coming," said Dean, searching in the dark for his shirt, "Let's move before-"

"Hey Dean."

He turned, just in time to see the butt of a gun clock him between the eyes.


	6. Hentai

"She really put up a fight." said Sam.

Sam sat in an antique wooden chair beside the window, covered in blood. One ankle rested on his knee, his head leaning between fore and middle finger as he looked off into the gathering stormclouds. Lace curtains billowed out in the wind on either side of him, and several cats had taken residence at his feet, their whiskers bloody from licking him clean.

Dean surveyed the destroyed living room. Harumi Nao's farmhouse had been at the top of their list for the past week, the epicenter of several infant deaths, though up until now they couldn't figure out why.

"So you decided to fight her solo?" he asked, wishing there was more light to see by. The storm was almost on top of them, and he wanted Sam safe in the motel before John returned.

"You gonna tell me what she was?" Dean asked, his head still throbbing from being pistol-whipped, "And why you felt the need to disobey orders?"

Sam didn't answer right away, part boldness before his elders and part shellshock. He looked thru the broken window, and Dean followed his gaze to an old covered well.

"She was there," said Sam, remembering, "The Penanggal."

* * *

><p>According to folklore, the Penanggal detached their heads at night, flying thru the air with their innards streaming behind them, and afterwards needed a store of vinegar to soak their bloated organs in before returning to their bodies. Sam had noticed the well earlier that week, a convenient spot for the young Japanese widow to toss rotten fruit from her apple farm, thus ensuring a steady vinegar supply, and what had started as a well-intentioned investigation quickly went south.<p>

Sam stood waiting before the well, machete in one hand, the summer air lifting the hairs on his skin. The older hunters had joked about these midnight chases, compared it to walking into a strange girl's bedroom, and while part of Sam fantasized about walking home with the monster's head as a trophy, proving himself a man, he also craved the thrill of the hunt. The feel of teeth as his throat, the savage love of this first kill that he hoped would cancel out all other loves. Even his brother's.

Slowly a woman's head rose from the hole in the earth, black hair coiling in the wind, her long train of intestines twinkling in the moonlight like fireflies. She smiled with a mouth full of needle teeth.

"Aaaaaah..." she sighed, "Baaaaaaby Boy."

He tried to keep his knees from shaking, for she was both beautiful and terrible, hair flickering black and blue in the moonlight as she towered over him.

"You won't kill me with that." she said, her long tongue flicking at his cheek.

He gripped the machete tighter, licking his lower lip as he eyed her, ashamed at the blush it brought it brought to his cheeks. If he could just get a little closer...

"For a hunter you taste..." she said, her tongue tracing his mouth, "...young."

He let out a ragged breath as she flicked along one side of his face, circling him until it rested at the base of his jaw, pushing his face upwards to look at her properly.

"I will be patient then."

* * *

><p>"And then what happened?" asked Dean.<p>

"She...chased me into the house," said Sam, though Dean suspected he'd skipped something important, "They need their body when the sun rises, so I turned the place over until I found it and...and burned it."

That part was true. What Sam failed to mention was the bit where she'd managed to get a hold on him, draining his blood and only allowing him a chance to strike when she was too glutted to fight with any great accuracy.

Thru his story, Dean noticed how at ease Sam looked, fitted in a suit of congealing blood, the sandpaper sound of cat tongues on his legs. He'd known hunters to go off the deep end from one too many kills, but he never thought Sam would be this easy to break. He'd stepped over the line and hadn't even blinked.

His gun lay warm against his back. If he didn't know Sam, he would have put him out of his misery. But then he'd been alive at Sam's mercy for a while now, whether the younger boy knew it or not.

Because as much as John had trained him to be an eventual replacement, Dean's role had been cemented after that botched attempt years ago, and the old man's words rang in his ears.

_"I'd kill you now," _John had said, the barrel pressed against Dean's cheek, shaking with humiliation, the poor macho bastard,_"But Sam'd never forgive me."_

At least John's terms had been simple. Keep your mouth shut, stay alive for Sam. Whatever that meant.

"Anything else you wanna tell me?" Dean asked.

Sam looked at the ceiling, as if the answer might be written there.

* * *

><p>With all that had happened in the last few days, he thought he'd had enough self-discovery. But the widow would soon teach him the ugliest part about himself.<p>

Sam Winchester loved fucking monsters.

Long strips of intestine bound him at the wrists and ankles, raising him higher and higher into the air, his weapon knocked away into grass now a mile below him.

_She's gonna kill me_, he thought, _she'll strangle me or eat me and toss me down like an old bone._

Rain speckled his face as he broke thru the cloudline, the moon a pearl pinning the black sky in place.

Her head rose to meet him. "Nice night." she said, while all around the clouds churned, the stars pulsing over an endless snowy landscape.

"I'll kill you."

"I know you're scared. Don't be. What is fear but..." she said, her lips now very close,"...indecision?"

"No..." he whispered, though he closed his eyes when she kissed him, "No, don't..."

He struggled against his grisly chains, only to feel them tighten.

She grabbed a piece of his shirt in her teeth, and began to tear, his chest heaving as she exposed him to the cold night air. "What are you...?"

But the question died on his lips as her tongue ran the length of his chest, savoring the cold sweat that broke out on his skin as he felt her teeth work to loosen the button on his jeans.

_Fuck am I really going to do this?_ he thought, with the earth a long drop below and the moon staring dreamily upon the scene and the promise of oblivion in her eyes.

Her tongue snaked it's way down inside his jeans, past the zipper and between his legs. He cried out, arching his back at her touch.

"Please..." he begged, "Don't."

Her tongue wrapped itself around his cock, tasting him and sliding up slowly, pulling it taut, his hips swiveling against it on instinct. His head fell backwards with the weight of it, his appeals lost on the wind. He was so dizzy from the thin air at this height, it was hard to think.

"No, don't..." he said to no one.

The zipper rolled down, her tongue freeing him, and he felt her breath on him as she neared.

"Don't..." he managed to gasp, as her little teeth pricked the head of his cock, raising a string of red beads. Creatures like her always did crave the blood of the innocent.

"I..." he sighed, looking down at the earth between the clouds, all the little houses twinkling, wondering if one of them was waiting for him to come home.

And retracting her teeth, she took him into her mouth, and began to feed.

* * *

><p>Sam held his head in his hands. He should have felt elated at his first kill, but he was so damn tired.<p>

"But why didn't you call me when it was over?" Dean asked.

Sam looked up. Lightning flashed, once, twice, and Dean found himself being stared down by two sets of eyes. Harumi's head hung mounted behind Sam, her hair falling in sheets on either side, her tongue lolling down the length of the wall and pooling on the floor.

Dean swallowed, reaching reflexively for the gun beneath his shirt.

Sam read his thoughts. "You going to kill me now?"

"Sammy..."

"You think this," he said, pointing up at the head, "Was going too far?"

"You don't..."

"You know many dead kids I found in her basement?"

"That's not justice, it's frickin' cold-blooded is what it is."

Sam stood up, the cats moving aside. "I learned a lot tonight," he said, his feet crunching on broken window glass as he approached, "More than John can teach me."

Dean stared, his right arm still bent behind him. Sam didn't even flinch at the glass biting into his bare feet, and even the cats looked twitchy at this display of power. Dean knew Sam had it in him to become a great hunter, but not like this, stinking like a butcher with those dead eyes.

"If I left town, tonight," asked Sam, "Would you come with me?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm tired Dean. Tired of Dad and his revenge and working from books," he said, "We'd get more done on our own."

"What, by going feral? Don't go down that road," said Dean, his finger on the trigger, "It'd be a short ride on a fast machine."

Sam knew he was frightening his brother, that he was walking along a precipice. The widow had only been dead an hour and already the old fire had returned, his hands itching to see what it would be like to fight whatever else lay waiting in the dark, to fill an entire room with row upon row of the spoils of war, skins on the floor and fangs for cuff-links. And that if the older boy pushed him away, didn't take him into his arms right now, he'd fall.

Dean knew that if he let Sam continue on his own path, he'd be a force of nature, going down in the history books as a great hunter, feared by all God's creatures. A big part of him wanted to take his hand, follow him into those woods, ditch his car and the roof over his head and the security of everyday living, leaving a trail of bullet shells behind them.

"No."

Sam stopped. "Why not?"

"I won't follow you down that rabbit hole. That's no way to live."

"Dean-"

"You made one kill-"

"Dean-!"

"-you got lucky this time, there's bigger and nastier things out there-"

"You're not listening to me-!"

"-and if _anything_ happened to you while I wasn't here I wouldn't know what to do," he said, dropping his gun, "I would turn my face to the corner of the room and die."

Sam shut up, stunned by this confession. "...what?"

Dean finally broke down, taking the boy's face in his hands. "You could have died! And what would I be then?"

"But-"

"Can't you see I ain't but trash if I can't make you happy?"

Tears swam in Sam's eyes. "I'm sorry..." he whispered, "I screwed up. I just wanted..."

Dean kissed him. He knew he had nothing to give Sam at this point, nothing that Sam couldn't take for himself, whether it be money or a hot meal or a home or the comfort of a woman or the glory of killing the adversary. He only had himself to give.

He swept Sam into his arms, he knew his purpose now. "Where?" he asked.

Sam looked at him, his body lit like a firebrand. "Anywhere. Away from here."

He glanced out the window, and saw a path thru the apple trees to an old barn. Lightning flashed, and Sam clung to Dean's neck.

"Don't worry," he said, as he carried him out of that awful place, the cats not daring to follow, "It won't hurt us."

* * *

><p>Branches swayed in the wind, wet leaves tearing off and flapping all around them as Dean crossed the orchard.<p>

The barn had caught on fire years ago and no one had bothered to repair the roof. But the loft had one covered section remaining, a warm, dusty corner lined with hay, and it was here that Dean climbed up and lay Sam down.

CRACK.

"The storm's close," Sam whispered, "That sounded like less than a mile from here."

"Shhh," he said, laying on top of him, covering his mouth.

All the birds had come to roost in the apple trees, their beady eyes gazing upwards at their coupling, waiting, listening.

Sam leaned his face against him, drunk with desire. The older boy sat up, removing his shirt, the muscles in his body standing in sharp relief as the lightning flashed again.

Sam shuddered, hands reaching out to touch him, running his fingertips along his chest that might have been carved from wood, feeling the older boy's heart hammering from fear and lust, and reaching around his sides to pull him down for another kiss.

He reached down, undoing Dean's belt, and slid his long fingers behind the fabric. Their kiss became more feverish, Dean's mouth more insistent, as Sam searched down below, running his hand gently along the length of him.

Dean grabbed Sam's hair, slick with blood and sweat, dragging his hand thru slowly until Sam's mouth came away from his and opened his throat to Dean's teeth. He wanted to take advantage of the younger boy, to savage him and mark his beautiful body, but John would come home soon. That thought loomed in the back of Dean's head, keeping him on a short leash.

Something dark flashed in Sam's eyes. "Go ahead," he whispered, feeling Dean's mouth on his throat, "I can take it."

Dean ran further down, seeking someplace easier to hide, following the curve of muscle and collarbone. And stopping at the hollow of his shoulder, feeling the heat radiate off of Sam's skin, he bit down.

Sam cried out, his hair falling in his eyes. "Ah _fuck_..." he said, his nails digging into the back of Dean's neck.

Dean came back up, biting his ear as he reached to undress Sam, pulling the bloody cut-offs down with one hand, brushing against the inside of Sam's thighs as he went.

Ever since that kiss in the hotel room, was it only twenty-four hours ago?, Dean had known there was something in Sam's blood, something predatory that had to be beat down, broken, put back in its' cave, and damned if he wasn't the man to fuck it back to sleep again.

Spitting in his hand, he pressed against the back of Sam's thigh. "Breathe out."

Sam closed his eyes, breathed out air, and breathed in pain. The pain, it made him grit his teeth and twist beneath the older boy. But he breathed a second time, a third time, hard and fast, and rocked with it, letting the two of them slide together.

"Ah...ah..." His arms wrapped around Dean's back, his face buried in his neck, as thunder rolled across the sky.

The barn creaked underneath, dust flying as the floorboards protested.

Dean kissed him, his hands holding tight under the other boy's knees, trying to match pace. With the glass in his feet and the bruises on his skin, he knew he couldn't hurt Sam, he wouldn't need to be careful like he would with a woman, and he summoned up every ounce of carnal instinct, moving slow and then fast, grinding and then swaying gently, determined to knock back whatever bloodlust might linger in Sam's frustrated little heart.

CRACK.

"Ah...that's..." Sam whispered, "The storm is...it's here."

And as Sam peaked, his body bending as if it would snap, the heavens opened, and the rain fell to the parched and greedy earth.

* * *

><p>The next morning:<p>

BEEEEEEP. "Dean, pick up. Pick up, it's John, where are you?"

**TBC**


	7. Locker Room Sex

"Psst."

"What?" asked Boobs.

Braceface stood in the fire escape doorway, looking over her shoulder to see if she'd been overheard. "Where are you going?"

"Home, why?"

"Remember those two lawn boys?"

Boobs smiled. "Yeah, why?"

"Track team practice just let out, and I heard one of them call his dad, saying he'd be late cuz of training."

"What kind of training?" Boobs whispered, peering into the gloom of the gym's back entrance.

"I dunno, but it probably involves them running around all sweaty in booty shorts," she said, one foot in the door, "Wanna go?"

Boobs chewed her lip thoughtfully. After a minute she texted her mom, letting her know she didn't need a ride, and the two went inside.

Somewhere on the other side the wall, a door opened and male voices floated thru an air vent overhead. Braceface looked over and put a finger to her lips, both girls sitting on their haunches and stooping to listen.

"...have to go to the library?" asked the younger boy.

"What's with the attitude Sam?"

"I wanna go out this weekend."

"Ooooh so that why you been John's step-n-fetch-it since he came back? Mixin' his drinks, shining his shoes...?"

"Shut up."

"I mean, you all but saluted when you brought him the paper this morning."

"The job just looks...interesting."

There was a pause as the older boy took a step back, the click of a door locking. "That so."

"It's not like that Dean."

"Uh-huh, right."

"Quit it!"

"Iiiiiii know what you're thinking about." he said, teasing, taking a step closer.

"Quit that!" he said, slapping away a hand.

"Little pig, little pig, let me in..."

"Dean, stop...that..." he said, as his breath caught, and there was the explosion of twenty pounds of books hitting the floor as the two boys began to kiss.

The girls' eyes went wide as saucers. Boobs grabbed Braceface's kneecap and began to shake it, as if to say _Holy crap, we hit the jackpot!_

Little noises, intakes of breath, a shirt being removed, bounced around the shower room. They could hear one of them undo his belt_, _the clink of the buckle as it came off and then wrapped around something else, and the younger boy broke the kiss to let a little laugh escape.

"You gonna kill me?" Sam whispered, daring him.

The girls looked at each other. _That can't be right._

"Oh yeah," said the other boy, cinching the belt, "I'm gonna open your ribcage..."

The scrape of a chair being wedged under a doorknob.

"...pull out your still-beating heart..."

The slow, purposeful steps of a man's boots on the tiled floor.

"...and eat it while you watch."

Boobs gaped. _What the fuck?_ she mouthed silently.

"But first, I gotta hear you beg."

The girls jumped, as something banged into the wall directly opposite them.

"No, please..."said Sam, as they heard the rustle of fabric coming undone, the papery slip of dry hands running along bare skin.

Boots squeaked against the floor, the clatter of chairs and tables as things were knocked over.

"No, don't..." Sam started breathily, a string of denials fading, 'Ah...that's...no don't make me..."

The back of his head hit the wall, a slow whimper escaping him.

"...not in your mouth..."

He held his breath, coming up for air every few seconds, and in between those silences was the creak of the leather around his wrists.

"...that's not fair."

"You wanted...?" the older boy asked, letting the question hang in the air.

Sam panted softly. "Nothing, I didn't want..."

Another kiss, and then a grunt as one of them was lifted into the air and set against the wall.

"No...no, don't put your evil cock in me..."

Boobs' eyebrows shot up. _ Evil?_

"No please..."

"Sorry honey. I'm gonna wear you out so hard," he said, his voice low, "And when I'm done, I'm gonna call up all the other wolves so they can have a turn."

Braceface narrowed her eyes. _Wolves? _

Boobs pulled a face, and mouthed something Braceface couldn't make out.

Boobs got out a pen and wrote on her hand. _ Lautner?_

Braceface made a pained expression. _ I hope not. _she mouthed.

"Aaaah..."

They couldn't tell which boy had made that sound, but it was quickly followed by a rhythmic thump against the wall, like an old washing machine.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No...keep..."

"I'm really close..."

"It's okay, me too..."

"Harder?"

"...Yeah..."

They huffed in sequence, and the girls looked up to see fingers lace into the vent, holding on, shaking gently in its' frame.

"Bite me Dean. Now."

Two cries, one sharp and ripping through two octaves, the other muffled, rang thru the empty building, the girls hugging their knees, staring at the vent in fear and wonderment.

_Are they dead_? Boobs mouthed, _Did they kill each other?_

When a few seconds had gone by, the fingers released their hold, and the spell was broken.

A pair of feet dropped onto the floor. "I'm gonna have the weirdest bruise."

"Ehn, tell John I punched your kidney during sparring practice."

The girls listened as they got dressed, their fists bunched up against their mouth, afraid of nervous giggles, ready to leap out and out the exit in case they should be discovered.

"So you gonna go to the library now?"

"What, we don't have time for another go?"

The older boy made a smiley, tempted little noise, and said, "John's waiting for me. Tomorrow, before we drive down to the lake."

They kissed, and departed, leaving only a buzz in the girl's ears, as if the walls still echoed with their love-making.

Boobs was the first to break the silence. "Holy. Crap."

"I know, right?"

They stared off into space, each girl lost in thought.

"That was, like, way hotter than _New Moon_." said Boobs.

"Yeah, totally."

Pause.

"Wanna go to my house and watch it?" asked Boobs.

"Nah, let's go to my place, my sister got a copy of _Y tu Mamá También._"

"Isn't that a political thing?"

"Yeah, kinda, but turn off the subtitles and it turns into a gay Latin porno," said Braceface, dusting herself off, "We'll fast forward to the last fifteen minutes."

They opened the door into the blinding summer sun. "I'm game."

* * *

><p>Dean listened to the faucet drip, his eyes closed in a post-coital doze, the bathwater scalding his skin as Sam lay on top with his back to him. With the both of them in there the water nearly came up to the edge, slipping over onto the floor whenever either of them moved.<p>

He didn't want this moment to end. But they had a huge swath of land to cover in search of...whatever they were supposed to be hunting this week, and John would be back, expecting them to be dressed and ready to work.

He felt a finger slowly trace along his sweaty cheekbone. "Dean."

He pretended not to hear. He wanted five more minutes, five more lifetimes of this love in idleness.

Sam left his hand on Dean's cheek, fingertips curling in to rest by his ear, his soft hair fanned on the older boy's chest, humming Robert Johnson's "Sweet Home Chicago". In the days to come, when he was too sick with fear and exhaustion to walk straight, Dean would remember this moment, and wonder if he'd ever be that happy again.

When he could no longer fake sleep he breathed in, waking up. "What's the time?"

"We gotta go." said Sam.

Dean swiped a hand over his mouth. "Right."

* * *

><p>John didn't say much on the ride over. Frankly he was impressed with Sam's new eagerness to please, and was waiting for the other shoe to drop ("when can I have my own FBI badge?") or ("can I kill the <em>next<em> zombie?").

"Alright," he said, slamming the door and surveying the property, "Murphy was buried near the lake. Spread out, keep your salt rounds handy."

The boys shouldered their guns, already breaking into a sweat as the noonday sun beat down on their heads.

"You coming?" asked Dean.

"I'll be with you in a bit, I told one of the fellas I'd call him once I was out here, there's crap for cell reception in these hills."

Dean waved acknowledgement. "We'll be on the north side of the water."

John nodded, and turned back to his truck.

Once he had driven off a ways, Sam smiled, his gun whacking against his hip as the they walked side by side down the old gravel path, prairie wheat growing high on either side of them.

"What?" Dean asked, smiling back.

"Nothing," Sam said quickly, "So who was this guy?"

"Mad Dog Murphy," said Dean, "Boxer, bouncer, and hitman for the mob. Nasty piece of work, Dad figures his bosses got a little nervous around him and had him taken care of. They think he was dropped in the water, and years later his old associates start disappearing. Could be nothing maybe, but..."

"So, what, we're supposed to dredge the lake, for a _maybe_ vengeful spirit?" asked Sam, dreading the idea of spending the entire day in this heat.

"Nah, if we don't find anything along the shore, we'll rent a boat tomorrow and try using some of Dad's sonar equipment."

Sam studied the land in silence, their boots crunching on the hard scrabble.

"How long you think it'll take him to get back?" Sam asked, giving him a sideways smile.

"Damn you're a cockthirsty little slut," he said, grabbing his hair playfully. He tipped Sam's head back, looking down at him with lidded eyes. "I oughta take you here in the tall grass and fuck that grin off your face."

Sam felt the blush on his cheeks, his lips parted as he waited for the older boy to make good on the threat.

"But I know something you'll like better," Dean said finally, letting go, "Come on, before the old man gets back."

* * *

><p>John gave up trying to return the call after three attempts, his signal dropping every few seconds no matter how close to town he drove. Sighing, he folded it and put it back on the car charger, accidentally brushing against something wedged between the seat and the emergency brake.<p>

"Dammit boys." he said, holding up the spare salt rounds.

He ran a thumb along the inside of his collar, sticky with sweat, rubbing at his shoulder and very tempted to go shirtless. Slamming the truck door, he walked off in the direction he'd last seen the boys, ears pricked for trouble.

The water glittered thru the trees, and way across the lake he could just make out Sam, his hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun.

"Where the hell has Dean got to?" he said to no one.

Suddenly, a figure lept out of the water, pouncing on Sam and wrestling him to the ground.

He opened his mouth to shout out the boy's name, but he bit back, knowing it could alert something equally unfriendly in the area. So instead he tried taking a shot from where he was, but it was too far to get a bead on the assailant, they were moving too fast.

"Wait a second..." he said, squinting and suddenly realizing who the other man was, "Dammit Dean."

He would have a few choice words to share with the boys about rough-housing during a job, as he made his way around the lake.

The grass was very high on this side, whipping at his face and buzzing with noseeums. He could barely see over the top, and had only the foggiest idea where the boys might be now.

Then, there was a sound. A laugh? He crept closer.

"...no..."

It was Sam's voice, high and pleading.

"I ain't done with you." Dean replied.

John was close now. They couldn't see each other thru the grass, and the boys were not expecting him, but he could hear them very well.

"I got a nice spot at the bottom of the lake for a pretty little boy like you." Dean said.

John raised a hand to the grass, pushing it aside. And there, naked and filthy, was Dean, his muscles dripping with lake water, fingers knotted in Sam's hair, bent over the younger boy, who lay in the mud on his elbows and the balls of his feet, hips raised in the air, his breathing labored.

"Don't..." Sam whispered, turning his face to let Dean bury his mouth in his neck.

Dean reached down to unfasten Sam's pants, sliding his hand inside as the boy arched against his touch.

John stepped back. He didn't need to see what happened next.

The boys walked back to the truck a couple of hours later, to find John in the back cleaning his gun. "Where were you?" Dean asked.

"Had to stop in town for supplies," he said, his eyes averted, "I tell you, we'd make better time doing this at night, what's say we grab some sleep and try again in a few hours?"

"I've heard worse ideas." Dean replied.

* * *

><p>John eyed the clock on the wall, taking another draft from his flask, and setting it down to continue trimming his nails.<p>

He was not a vain man. His shined boots, his precise way of storing weapons, the whores he turned down in favor of late night research, were all necessary in his line of work. What the job did not require, he pruned away. He was a minimalist.

Dean had been asleep for a while now, drowsy on steak and eggs and beer, his long, lithe figure stretched out on top of the cheap blanket. The memory of him in the field, the lines of his body and the burr in his voice when he pushed Sam to the ground, haunted John now. He let his eyes move from one end of the boy to the other, the curve of his back, the biceps filling his cotton shirt sleeves.

You shouldn't play favorites. Or if you do, you never let on. But Dean was everything he'd hoped for, resourceful, respectful, cheeky in the face of death. And then there was Sam. The nice boy. The quiet one.

The sentimental poindexter fuck-up.

He should have let today's mishaps slide. So Dean left the rounds in the car, so they went off to have some fun. But it was a slippery slope, and he couldn't afford the boy to become careless on the job. He needed Dean to have his back.

He took another pull from the flask. Clearly Dean needed to go cold turkey on Sam. Just a few days, long enough for him to get over the infatuation, and get his head back in the game.

John opened his wallet to an old family photo, the four of them huddled on a park bench somewhere. He fingered Mary's face gently, the baby on her lap, and then laid his finger flat so that they were both hidden.

After all, he was a minimalist, and that meant you were strongest when you learned to live with less.

When he thought it was safe, he nudged Sam.

"Time to go." he said.

Sam rubbed his eyes. "It's still light."

"We gotta do some prep work before the hunt starts."

Sam sat up, alert. "You're taking me on the hunt this time?"

John smiled, his teeth glinting in the light. "Quick now, before your brother wakes up."

"Hee!" Sam said, jumping out of bed to get dressed.

The drive was much quicker this time, and Sam noticed that they were taking a different route. "Is this a shortcut?"

"It's something." John replied, taking another shot of whiskey.

"Should you be drinking at the wheel?" Sam asked, concerned.

"I'm fine, been a long week." he said.

They pulled up to the field, long stretches of nothing for miles in every direction. They hadn't passed another car in the last half hour, and even the crows avoided this place. "Here," said John, "Grab the duffle bag from the trunk and head due east, see where that oak tree's at?"

Sam nodded, eyes bright with anticipation, and ran out to fetch a bag nearly as long as he was tall. He didn't ask John what he had planned, he figured it was all on a need-to-know basis, and was happy just to be included for once.

"So where do we start?" Sam asked, dropping the bag and looking out at the featureless landscape.

He was too excited to notice the bag being opened behind him.

"Where you're standing's good." said John, as the shovel made contact with the back of Sam's head.


	8. Buried Alive

Sam awoke to the spray of dirt in his eyes. He tried to rub it away, but his hands were tied.

"Mmm...?" he mumbled, only to find his mouth taped, a rolled-up sock between his teeth. Where were his clothes?

"Up here."

He looked up, six feet in the air. There stood his father, framed against a cloudless sky, a shovel in one hand.

"Ya know, your brother was right," he said, wiping the sweat off his brow with the end of his shirt, "I should have started you earlier."

Sam struggled against his bonds, his shoulders hitting the sides of the cheap pine box. "That's always the problem with the second child," John said, "You spend all your energy kickin' the first one's ass to get 'em in line, by the time the next kid comes you're too tired to say boo."

Sam said something murderous, but all that came out was "Mmmm mmm mmm!"

John tossed the shovel to one side, bending down to open his toolbox. "You know I heard you two, down by the lake."

Sam stopped struggling.

"Nah, it ain't what you did," John said, easily, as if Sam had been caught stealing nudie magazines, and well boys will be boys, "It's how you did it."

He lept into the pit, and Sam flinched as his voice changed, all business now. "You think the monsters sneak around at night cuz they're shy around you?"

"Like they're gonna ask you out on a date?" he said, reaching up and grabbed the edge of a sheet of plywood, the coffin lid, "Son, you got one name in their phonebook and that's Bait, and you wouldn't be the first hunter who ended up dead from chasing some demon piece of ass."

He began to pull more tools from the grass up top, a hammer, a box of nails.

"Cuz if they do fuck you, it ain't cuz they like you," he said, leaning over until Sam could see the red in his eyes, the hammer clanking against the box as he brought his hand down on the edge, "They just wanna see that look on your face."

Sam whimpered against his gag.

"Now listen, I'm gonna get back in that truck," he said, jerking a thumb over shoulder, "And show your brother where you ditched the car you stole. Where you thought tonight's hunt was gonna take place. Where you died."

Sam shook his head from side to side.

"I got a body from the local morgue," he said, "Kid got his face torn off by his dog, could be anybody. Dean's smart enough that he'll see the body's a little too ripe for the time of death, but if the body's wearing your gear, and providing you don't show up to prove me wrong, he'll take it as such."

Sam's eyes widened at this plan.

"Ah don't worry, there's nothing here that I ain't trained you to get out of," John said, rummaging around in Sam's clothes, "I intend to leave the things you carried on you," he said, emptying the contents onto Sam's lap, a lighter, a kerchief, and a spare 9mm round, "And we won't be more than fifty miles out. That's three days tracking, on foot at least. Give you some time to think."

Sam's brows knit, think about what?

"Hunting's gotta be in your blood, son," John said, looking up at the sky as if they shared a secret, "You gotta wake up every morning, wanting it. You can't half-ass it if you got a hard-on for the Big Bad. In this business, you are a dead man on borrowed time. You pack your coffin with you."

They considered each other for a few seconds, and then John began to count out nails.

"Now you got a choice. You can walk away, once you dug yourself out, and start somewhere else. We'll go east, you go west," he said, his gaze direct but not unkind, "I won't come looking for you."

Sam swallowed, understanding.

"And I'll make sure the other hunters steer clear of you. You'll be off the map."

Sam followed him with his eyes, part of him wishing this were a joke while the practical part of his brain told him to slow his breathing. He would need it in the next hour or so.

"But if you want this life, come find me," John said, placing the lid on top, "I'll be waiting."

* * *

><p>"It's not him."<p>

Dean ran the flashlight up and down the corpse, now swarming with deer flies, though they were not the only reason that he didn't want to examine the body up close.

"Dean-" said John.

"I mean, come on, why the hell did he run off?"

"Dean-"

"He must have read something in the paper today," Dean said, trying to make sense of it, put the pieces in order, "Or maybe...we'd been talking earlier, about how we might need to get a boat to look for Murphy's body..." He faltered, and the arm holding the flashlight suddenly felt so heavy.

John put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey."

"No..." he said, looking away from the body, "He's been like this the last few days, wanting to go it alone. I should have said something, I should have frickin' tied him to a chair, I should..."

"Dean..." said John.

"He's dead."

The shock of his own pronouncement hit home, and he covered his eyes with one hand. The first sob was quiet. "Ah...I didn't think it would be this hard," he said, shaking, "All the things I've seen, but this..."

The hand was warm on his shoulder, and it took all his willpower not to lean into it. "Dammit Sammy..."

John never touched him, not since that night years ago, and he was so scared now, so alone...

The prospect of having to bury Sam was one thing. The idea that he'd be going back to that hotel with someone who didn't want him, whose simple gesture of pity awakened old memories...

John's head twisted around. "You hear that?"

Dean stopped to listen, swallowing. "What?"

"There." John whispered, pointing out toward the lake.

Dean followed his finger, and saw a pale, lumbering figure step out of the water.

"That son of a bitch," Dean hissed, "I'll kill him."

"Dean, wait-!" John warned.

But he was already running, branches whipping at his face and arms, legs pumping thru the undergrowth.

In the sixty seconds it took him to close the gap, he had imagined a detailed scenario of this kill, of cleaning the guy's clock, tying his body to the Impala, dragging him down the highway until he begged for mercy, and then setting him on fire while Dean danced in a wild orgy of whiskey and vengeance. Afterwards he'd fling himself off of Lover's Leap, shedding a silent tear before dashing his brains on the rocks below. It would be an epic testimony to Sam's memory, women would write songs about it and shave their heads to mourn their loss at having never known so great a love.

So it was a surprise when the Revenant Formerly Known as Mad Dog Murphy took one look at his attacker and punched him ten feet thru the air.

"Gugh..." Dean said, holding his head up a few seconds to look at his opponent, bloated and mottled from so much time spent underwater, before letting it fall back and watching the stars burst again.

"Hang tight," said John, popping his knuckles, "I got this."

* * *

><p>John had fought plenty of revenants in his day, but they were usually housewives bent on rattling their chains in a mother-in-law's linen closet. They weren't a serious threat. They weren't prize fighters.<p>

He would never beat this guy in a straight-up fight, the guy had six inches and eighty pounds on him. He'd have to get in his head, assuming his revivified brain wasn't just soup sloshing between his ears, and he thought back to his days in the Marine Corps for inspiration.

"Hey now sweetheart," John said, with a smile that took twenty years off of him, "I make you nervous?"

The old boxer stopped in his tracks.

"Cuz you're sweatin' like a whore in church."

He turned away from Dean's groaning figure, his head swiveling over one shoulder like a vulture that'd just heard a baby's death rattle.

"What're you lookin' at me for?" said John, hands up in challenge, "Either you wanna fight me or fuck, and lemme assure you honey I can beat you at both."

The dead man smiled with a mouth full of broken teeth.

"What're you smiling at?" John taunted, "You think you're Marlon Brando? Come on, you wanna fuck me? You gonna buy me a drink?"

Murphy let out a gurgle, right as John snuck up with an under-cut that knocked him off-balance.

"I didnt think so!" he said, "Now put those fuckin teeth away!"

The old boxer shook it off, and raised his fists in the air.

"Oh yeeeeeah, I read all about you," said John, as they circled each other, "Took home the gold most of your life, never left a man standing in the ring. But you know what else I heard?" he said, as he dodged a blow, "Something between you and your boss?"

Murphy screamed something incoherant.

"Wow, that's a first, ya hear that Dean?" said John, laughing, "This cooze can't wait for this Don't Ask Don't Tell shit to pass."

And just as Murphy pivoted for another swing, John ran into him, his arms wrapped around his ribcage as they slammed into a tree. Murphy got his hands around John's throat for a few seconds, but a kick in the shin broke the chokehold.

"You can beat a million men, and kill a million more," said John, dropping his voice as he stood over the fallen man, fists raised for another blow, "But suck one cock and you will always be a cocksucker."

* * *

><p>Dean lay dazed on the ground, his eyes unfocused as they scrapped in the dark.<p>

John used to use barracks slang all the time when they were younger, for morning runs, sparring, weapon stripping, hell, for getting them in and out of the shower before the hot water ran out. It was one of the few things John enjoyed, like a hillbilly poetry slam.

Dean never admitted to himself how much he enjoyed it too.

After several minutes of dancing and not quite connecting, John finally landed a punch on Murphy's jaw that turned him a hundred and eighty degrees and on all fours.

"That's it, get down." John barked. Murphy looked up, genuinely afraid now, his mouth slack, his black tongue lolling out.

John stuck his boot on Murphy's face, grinding it into the mud. "Get down on your fat, rotten belly."

Dean felt his face flush at the command, the way it sent a jolt between his legs. It was hard to make out what was going on, but the moonlight peeked thru the branches, exposing one side of John's sweaty, muscled chest, his biceps curling as he ran both hands behind his bruised neck.

"Damn you are one ornery son of a bitch..." he said, and planting his feet on either side of the dead man, he reached down and grabbed a fistful of hair. The revenant cried out, but John just yanked harder.

Dean's eyes began to work again, but so did the rest of his body. All the fear and panic he'd felt in the last hour was starting to focus, pooling downwards in a glowing, liquid heat, and as he licked his dry lips, his breath came out ragged, uneven. He couldn't help drinking in the lines on John's body, the way he moved as he straightened his back over the other man, the cold curl in his mouth.

John sat down, his knees locking the other man's head in place, boots pinning his arms, the dead man's eyes looking up blindly. Dean imagined what that must feel like, to have that weight crushing on his back, fingernails on his scalp, head pinned between his knees like a vice. And as the dead man's head was dragged backwards for the killing blow, Dean found himself panting in time with it, hot with fear and humiliation.

"That's it," John whispered in his ear, pulling a knife from his boot, "Good dog."

Dean bit down on his lip as the knife sliced into the man's neck, twin jets of blood spraying as John kept an iron grip on his hair. He struggled to keep him in place, his hips twisting against the man's back as he bucked against him. _Fuck, look at him_, he thought.

And he couldn't stop himself, his cock rubbed against his jeans once, twice...he tried to look away, but the thing wouldn't die, it kept crying out, and John was riding him so hard, and gritting his teeth, he shut his eyes, allowing himself one small sound of release...

* * *

><p>John cleaned the knife on his jeans, and walked over to Dean.<p>

"You alright?"

"Yes sir," said Dean, holding up a hand to be helped up.

John smiled. "Boy I haven't done that in a long time."

"I can imagine." Dean said, rubbing his jaw.

"Stay here and watch him in case he gets up again, I'll get the med kit."

"Yes sir."

John was a little taken aback at Dean's stiff replies, but then he'd just discovered his brother's "body", so who's to say if the shock had hit him yet or not?

Dean stood over Murphy. He desperately wanted to go to bed, but was afraid that if he lay down he'd never get up again.

"Here," said John, "Have a seat."

Dean was about to say he didn't need to sit, when a hand grabbed his shoulder, and he sat hard on a tree stump. Boxes came unsnapped and bottles were unscrewed, and it was all he could do to not stare at John's shirtless back, gleaming against the midnight forest.

"Open your mouth for me."

He did as he was told, closing his eyes as he felt fingers explore, checking for loose teeth, the skin rough and salty against his tongue. His mouth closed on thin air a few seconds later, teeth snapping together, hungry for more.

"Okay, you'll be needing this."

Dean opened his eyes. The moon had come out from the clouds again, and inches from his face was John's hand, brown and weather-beaten, right in front of his zipper, his boxers peeking out the top of his bloody bluejeans, proffering a little plastic cup of white viscous fluid.

Dean took it, careful not to touch John's fingers. He knew if he touched him, he'd die. He'd just die.

"Good boy," he said, putting his hands on his hips as Dean swished the disinfectant, "Now spit."

* * *

><p><strong>tbc<strong>


	9. Zombie Group Sex

Sam pushed his hands thru the four feet of loose soil that hadn't collapsed into the pine box, taking a great rattling lungful once he broke the surface. Air never tasted so sweet.

The grass was cool against his filthy cheek, and he would have fallen asleep but for the kerchief wedged between his teeth, holding a lighter and a single bullet. The one with John's name on it.

"Gotta get back..." he muttered, though two hours of punching his way out of a coffin on top of oxygen deprivation slurred everything into "Uuuuuuuuu".

He stood up, naked save for his boxers, and flicked his lighter open. The road was nowhere in site, nor did John leave a discernible trail back to his truck. Sam eyed a nearby tree. "Moss grows on the south side." And pointing himself in that direction, since he remembered they'd driven north that afternoon, he set off, hoping to reach civilization before he got too thirsty.

After a few miles of trudging in the dark, his bellyfire for revenge was soon outweighed by simpler needs. A real bed, a shower, a glass of cola, to not be stepping barefoot on pine cones in the dark. But mostly he wished Dean were here, to talk to him, tell him everything would work out.

Pushing these thoughts aside, he caught a whiff of something, rosemary? No, sage and cloves and something...like a dead animal.

"...suscita me intende expergiscere..."

He crested the hill, where the trees gave way to a gentle sloping field the size of a golf course, a little path winding thru it and leading back to-

"-a parking lot." Sam whispered, smiling. A little sign read Gristle & Weed, what the hell kind of name was that for a golf course?

"...suscita me intende expergiscere..."

The voice was directionless in that high wind, hard to track, but he didn't have the energy, or pants, or weapons, to investigate whatever dark rite somebody might be performing at the 18th hole. Better to sneak past them and see if they had a car worth stealing.

As he walked along, he noticed a little circle of candles around a tree stump. He hesitated, John's bullet burning a hole at his side, but come on, who recites Latin in an empty field at midnight? he wondered. _No one good,_ said the little voice in his head. "True," he said to himself, curiosity getting the better of him, "But they're not reciting at _me_."

He crept closer, the candles flickering in the breeze, a pair of arms outstretched in supplication, their hands slimy with gore.

"...suscita me intende expergiscere FUCKING FUCK WAKE UP ALREADY."

He was so startled, thinking he'd been discovered, that a bramble caught his foot, and he went face-first into an ivy patch.

"Uuuuugh." he said, rolling over on his back, cupping his mouth, and seeing his hand come away with blood where he'd bitten his lip.

"Holy crap."

He looked up. Standing a few feet away, underlit by the ring of candles, was a girl all in black. She cut a striking figure, with army boots on her feet and a pair of eyeballs swinging from her hands like Satan's desk toy, and she stared at him warily.

"Uuuu?" he managed.

She flinched, but then remembered herself, holding her hand palm out to him. "Pares dominis..."

His brows knit together, what was she trying to do? She drew closer, repeating the words until her hand was on his heart, her invocation faltering slightly as she ran her fingers along his lean, muscled chest, tracing the lines of his ribcage. He looked down at the bloody trails she made, his breath a little shaky as her fingertips touched his busted lip.

She waited, swallowing as she made eye contact, waiting for his response. "Well?" she said uncertainly.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat, "Um, firstly, um, you're using second person informal, and we don't know each other, and secondly, unless you're using church Latin..."

"Wait," she said, getting right up in his face, "You can talk?"

He smiled. "What, is this Greek to you?"

"AND you make Shakespeare jokes?" she said, agog as she flicked open her own cigarette lighter.

_Damn_. he thought. She was young, his age, red hair framing pale freckled cheeks and a plum mouth, her flimsy black sweater covering breasts that had just sprouted over the winter. With her arms gloved in a combination of ritual tattoos, human sacrifice, and cheap silver jewelry, he couldn't help but find her distracting.

She took an account of him, shining the flame in his face, over his body, even grabbing the elastic of his boxers and peeking inside at his now swollen erection before he could slap her hand away.

"Holy crap," she said, "I am GOOD."

* * *

><p>Dean stared out at nothing thru the darkened motel window, John's figure reflected in the glass. His eyes closed for a few seconds, but popped open again. <em> Can't sleep,<em> he thought, _Sammy might come back._

John couldn't sit still. A successful kill either left him in bed for a week or wanting to run laps around the parking lot, and he channeled his antsiness into research. "Revenants don't pop up on their own," he said, leafing thru some old newspapers, "Must be a necromancer in the area that's bringin' 'em."

"Yeah..." Dean said, not really listening. He glanced at the clock, six more hours til dawn. If he could just get thru the night, he could go out and look for Sam again.

Tick, tock.

_Stay awake for five more minutes,_ he thought,_ maybe Sammy will be back by then. _His eyes closed again.

He remembered one hunt from last year, John had decided to cut thru Nevada on Route 50, a desolate stretch of red rock that looked like the end of the world. You'd have to drive three hours to get from one town and the next, and even then, you were lucky if that dot on the map represented a gas station and the attendant's trailer on blocks. Mostly it was nothing but ghost towns.

They called it The Loneliest Road.

Dean had volunteered to drive that night, while John and Sam slept. The center strip snaked thru the desert, with nothing to break up the monotony except for the occasional big rig coming from the other direction. Normally he would have sung along with the radio, or made a lot of coffee stops, or annoyed his little brother with the same one hundred dick jokes they'd heard in grade school.

But he hadn't wanted to wake them, so he'd divided up the ride in his head into manageable goals. _ Ten more miles, then you can pull off and sleep. Okay, another ten miles, maybe you'll sleep then._ Once he hit those mile markers though, he'd have no memory of having driven at all.

"Ah, got something." said John.

"What?" he said, his reverie broken.

John stood up from the desk, handing over a folded newspaper. "Bottom left corner."

Dean scanned the police report. "Grave desecration?"

John smiled. "Necromancers gotta get raw materials from somewhere."

Dean checked the address of the cemetery the article mentioned, Gristle & Weed. "I've seen that place, it's not far from here."

"Yeah, true-"

"Let's go now." Dean said, looking up, his eyes suddenly feverish.

"Dean, you're about to fall asleep on your feet-"

"I need. To work." Dean said sharply, tossing the paper onto the couch, "You need to find something for me to do, right now, or I'm going to lose my mind. Hell, I feel halfway there."

"What you need is to sleep, you won't fight anything if you can't keep your eyes open."

"I..." Dean faltered, choking on his words. Why wasn't John falling apart over Sam's death?

"Tell ya what," John relented, "_I_ need some sleep. We've got a list of places to check tomorrow along with this cemetery, no doubt the guy's got a hidey hole somewhere in this town. So if you wanna do something productive," he said, handing him a shotgun, "Take first shift."

Dean said nothing to this, eyes on his boots as John stretched out on the couch.

"Wake me in three hours."

And pulling off his shirt, he covered his eyes against the lamplight, and settled into the cushions.

Though John had sustained some bruising on his neck from the fight earlier, he hadn't a mark on him. Dean noticed the black hair curling over his ears, the week's worth of stubble along his jaw, and wondered what that would feel like...

He blinked, and pushed it away.

But the only other thing on his mind was Sam, this morning in the bath, singing that old Muddy Waters song. _ I'm goin to Chicago, two thousand miles away,_  
><em>Boy won't you tell me that you'll be my friend someday.<em>

He closed his eyes on soft, slow tears. It was like a drug, no matter where he looked, Sam. Every time he tried to distract himself, Sam. Get a glass of water, open a book, check the phone for messages, Sam Sam Sam. _Tough luck man, you still can't have him,_ said his reflection in the window.

But now, for every ten times he saw Sam's face, it would turn into John's. John's hands on him, his breath on the back of his neck, his voice in the dark.

You drive long enough on Route 50, you start to see things. Truckers called it 'highway hypnosis', the way you imagine shadows in the headlights, phantoms in the corner of your eye. You tell yourself they're not real.

"No, no, can't sleep," he said, pulling the gun against his chest, "Not now."

* * *

><p>"Why are you-" Sam began, until she covered his mouth, her body flattening him to the ground as her booted feet snaked around his legs.<p>

"Damn you are so hot," she said, between kisses, "AND you have a brain."

He tried to push her off, but honestly didn't try very hard.

It had been a long night. He was thirsty and hungry, and the taste of her mouth overwhelmed him. She had the skinny limbs of a child, but underneath she was round and ripe, and he couldn't prevent his hands from reaching under her shirt, fingers following the curve of her undulating hips as her soft tongue parted his teeth.

"The last guy I raised (kiss) was old (kiss) and smelled like dog food (kiss) and couldn't name me the days of the week."

"The last guy?" Sam asked, coming up for air.

She blinked.

He looked at her tattoos, at the candles around the grave, the burning herbs, the spare eyeballs, and it all clicked. "Were you summoning up the dead?"

"Ah...I..." she stuttered, blushing prettily and rocking against his erection hopefully.

He tried to move, and noticed something on his thigh where she straddled him. "You're...sticky."

"Yeah, so?" she said defensively.

"Where's your underwear?"

She darted a guilty look toward the grave, searching for a nice way to say-

"You were gonna fuck that dead guy?" Sam said, yanking his hands away from her in disgust.

"Don't you judge me!" she said heatedly, sitting up and shaking the grave dirt out her clothes, "And I might ask what you're doing, Mister..."

"Sam." he replied. What the hell was he doing rolling around with this crazy chick, he needed to get back to Dean.

"-Sam, running around covered in mud with no clothes in the middle of a cemetery?"

He opened his mouth, and hesitated, wondering if she'd believe him. "I was buried alive?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Who would do something like that?"

"Look it doesn't matter," he said, trying to focus, Dean must be worried sick, "You drove here, right?"

"Didn't I see you before? In town with those two other guys?" she asked, fear alighting in her face. "The ones with all the _guns_?"

"It's really none of your business," he said, his skin crawling as he imagined her riding some corpse bareback, "What I _need_ is a ride back to the interstate, so do you or do you not have a car?"

"Why should I?" she asked reasonably, "If you're who I think you are, you and your friends are one poisoned Kool-Aid short of a Waco Massacre. Why should I go anywhere with you?"

"Because if you don't give me a ride right now," he said, because this was just the last straw and he was angry and horny and wasn't thinking straight, "I'm going to stuff you in your boyfriend's coffin, _take_ your car, and then bring back my family so we can waste your Frankenstein loving ass."

She weighed his words. He wasn't bluffing. "Hunters." she spat.

"Yeah, something." he said, laughing bitterly.

"Huh. That makes sense. Though I have to admit," she said, gazing at him hungrily, "Every hunter I met before you had more toes than teeth and thought James Joyce was a brand of malt liquor."

"Gee thanks."

She gave his beautiful body one last long look, "Shame really."

And spitting out a long run of syllables, she flicked her wrist, and the earth suddenly glowed with an eldritch fire.

"What did you do?" he asked, as her candles winked out one by one.

"I can't let you get back to them." she said, as the night began to fill with pounding of fists against rotten wood, "They would never let me live, not after what I've done."

A bony hand erupted fro the soil, clamping onto Sam's ankle.

"What the hell-?"

"Besides, you're too good to let go," she said, as the car crash victim from the open grave crawled out and lurched toward her, his eye-less head balanced on one hip, "You're perfect."

"You can't...keep me here." he grunted, fighting to keep his balance as the ground liquefied around him.

She smiled, and more hands broke thru the surface to latch onto him. "You'll like me soon enough," she said, as he tried to scramble away, "Be happy, we had a bus full of cheerleaders die in a crash last week, I could have summoned something _really_ nasty."

And indeed, the dead surrounded him on all sides, girls his age in their Sunday best, stitches popping, tearing their lips as they stretched their mouths wide.

"No no no, what are you..." he said, hands groping him, grasping with needy, clammy fingers.

The girl sat atop a gravestone to watch the show, taking Mr. Car Crash's head in her arms like an old tomcat and fondly brushing his hair back.

"No stop it..." he said, craning his neck to look around for a weapon, a rock, a branch, anything. Hands grabbed his knees, forcing them apart, teeth nipping at his thighs and belly and other tender areas, hungry for his lean, brown body.

The girl's lips parted in desire as he twisted this way and that, his sinewy frame dewy with sweat.

"Here," she cooed to the blind head in her arms, "Open your mouth for me sugar."

She pressed the dead man's lips to her breast, making a little noise as the cold tongue suckled her thru the fabric, teeth biting down gently, and her sex melted between her legs.

Sam looked over at her in fury, his breath hot and hard as his arms were stretched over his head and pinned to the ground.

"Make them stop!" he shouted.

But then the first dead girl bent down, palms flat on either side of his naked hips, and opened her ruined mouth to take him, and suddenly he didn't have the breath to scream anymore.

He was helpless. Just when he thought one of the dead girls was slackening her grip, they would redouble their efforts, smothering him, and his mouth watered as a stranger's tongue washed over his cock, swallowing the length of it greedily.

"Stop it..." he pleaded, ashamed as he felt them take turns between his legs, cold and breathless, eager for the love he secretly longed to give them.

He shot a smoldering glare at the necromancer, and caught a flash of her dripping wet cunt as the wind played at her skirt. Her face was flushed from watching him, listening to his cries for mercy. And while most of him wanted to kill her, the monster between his legs recognized her as a kindred spirit, a freak, and he wanted to knock her to the ground and tear her like pink paper, show her what a hot-blooded cock felt like, one she couldn't control.

Sam was so beautiful, she thought. And once the revenants were done with him, she could re-animate him, and he would be hers. For always...

She didn't have to wait long. One of the zombie cheerleaders, stitched in so many places that she resembled a rag doll, had slackened her grip, enough so that Sam could grab her arm and wrench it free from the socket. The other girls stopped, confused at this turn of events, and it gave him enough time to get out from under them.

"Um..." the girl said, Mr. Car Crash slipping from her fingers.

His attackers were fit from years of gym class, but that didn't include years of dirty street fighting with John and Dean, and they were soon strewn across the grass like heavily made-up bowling pins. He stood over them, chest heaving, blood dripping from his hands.

"That's..." she whispered, backing away slowly.

He wheeled around, flinging the arm to one side, and strode toward her with something not quite murder in his eyes. She started, falling off the headstone and landing hard with her legs splayed.

_Oh shit,_ she thought, staring between his legs, _He's going to fuck me with that thing._


	10. Sexy Frankenstein

She scrambled to her feet, managing a few steps before he caught up to her, grabbing her red ringlets and hauling her backwards.

"Ow fuck! Let go of me!" she yelled, as he proceeded to drag her across the graveyard by the hair, kicking and screaming.

"Ow you're hurting me...!"

"Shut up." he said, flinging her belly-down onto a granite tomb.

She tried to twist her head around to look, but he slammed her face to the cool stone, his cock pressed against the small of her back, his breath hot on her neck.

"Sam I'm sorry..." she whispered.

"No you're not," he said, turning her to face him, his filthy hair falling in his eyes, "Not yet."

And wrapping his hands around her throat, he pressed his thumbs into her windpipe.

"Huuuuuh..." she wheezed, kicking uselessly. Her back arched, struggling to lift him off, but he pinned her down with his hips as he fought to keep her in place.

In the darkness, with her body struggling against the long white slab, he saw John, standing against the summer sky while Sam reached out from his grave to crush the life out of him.

Her face reddened, her eyes begging for him to listen to reason. "Sam..." she choked, "I just didn't want you to leave."

He could have shown some mercy at that point. She was just a kid with a lot of power and too little common sense. But his hours of wandering thru the woods, hungry and lonely and tired, had planted the awful fear that he had failed John, his entire life he'd failed him. He'd never tried to get along, never obeyed orders, hadn't taken the profession seriously, and now he had no place in the family.

Everyone wanted Sam to play a part, whether as John's tin soldier or this girl's wind-up toy. She didn't really need him. No one did, except for Dean, and he was so far away now...

_I won't come looking for you,_ John had said,_ You'll be off the map._

"Shut up," he hissed, his eyes watering as her nails dug into his wrists hard enough to draw blood, "And die already."

She gave a high whistling sound, her head jerking hard once, twice...and then not at all.

It was over, faster than he would have suspected. "What have I done?" he whispered.

"Dammit," he said, as tears spilled, "I just wanted to go home, you stupid girl."

He released her neck, suddenly aching all over now that the adrenaline rush had passed. A hush fell on the cemetery but for her hair brushing across the tombstone in the wind, and when he looked around, he saw that her boots had scuffed hundreds of thick, black hatchmarks across the white stone.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, mewling like a wounded animal. "Dammit, Dean, what the hell was I supposed to do?"

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, tears plinking between her pale breasts as he hung his head, "I didn't mean for this."

He touched the bruises on her neck, and leaned over to kiss her pulse. "Please, wake up," he said, placing kisses on her cheeks, her forehead, rubbing his hands on her arms to warm her, "Please, forgive me, forgive me, don't be dead, this isn't what I wanted."

He put his arm around her waist and lifted her from the tombstone, her head falling back. "Don't be dead." he pleaded, brushing the hair from her face. And taking a shaky breath, he held the back of her neck and placed a light kiss on her mouth, her lips salty with his tears when she didn't respond.

She was still warm. Though she didn't respond to his caresses, he continued to trail kisses down her jaw and into the hollow of her neck, panting as made his way to her breasts. Her skin was pliant under his touch, and as he checked for signs of life, his fingers drifted over her pillowy curves, her flat belly and wide hips.

"Please, I'm right here."

And resting his forehead on her chest, he closed his eyes and reached down between her legs.

"Come on," he pleaded, "Isn't this what you wanted?"

He dropped his face in her hair, his mouth buried in the shadow of her neck, his hips rolling gently against her.

"I can make this right." he said.

"Ah..." she whispered, as his fingers found purchase inside her.

He started, whipping his face away.

She smiled, pointy little teeth white in the darkness. "I told you you'd like me."

He sat up, pulling his hands away.

She coughed a little, her voice scratchy. "You've never killed anyone, have you?" she said, assessing him coolly, "No, you've never killed a human being, am I right?"

He swallowed. "I'm so sorry, I..."

"Don't be," she said, a wicked gleam in her eyes, "You liked it, didn't you?"

"What-?"

"It was quiet. Peaceful," she said, as he shook his head, "You were in control."

"I'm not like that-"

"The living are hot and messy and noisy. The dead...sleep," she said, running a finger gently across his mouth. "Like in a fairy tale."

"I wasn't going to..."

"Yes you were," she said, wrapping her legs around his waist, drawing him close, "I saw you with those dead girls. You're like me."

She reached out for his hand, red raw from fighting, and held it gently, turning it this way and that to inspect it. And then, bringing it to her mouth, she licked his bruised, bloody knuckles, her dark eyes flashing up at him as he shuddered but did not pull away.

"Sam..." she sighed, her tongue warm and wet on his skin.

He tried to pull away, but she wouldn't let go, and he felt himself harden as his cock scraped against her. She tilted her chin up to kiss him, over and over, pressing her warm mouth to his as if it were her turn to breathe life into him.

"People must think you're dead by now," she whispered, "They won't come looking for you."

"Nnnn..." he tried to say, unable to twist away from her.

"You shouldn't have crawled out of the ground in the first place," she said, placing his hands on her breasts, "It's warm in there."

Her arms curled around the waist of the black marble angel behind her. She smelled of burnt leaves and dead man's blood, and his hands moved over her back, pulling them into an embrace until his cock stood expectant between her thighs.

"No," he said, trying to regain some self-control and failing, "This isn't what I wanted..."

"Stay with me," she whispered as he kissed her neck, "We could do a lot together."

He stopped. "What are you talking about?"

She licked her teeth, excited to share her idea. "Have you ever considered," she said, running her hands thru his hair and kissing again, "How much someone would pay to bring someone back from the dead?"

His brows knit together, not sure he liked where this was going. "What do you mean?"

"I don't mean like bringing back your grandmother," she said, sucking at his lower lip, "I mean, rich guys? They'll pay upwards of five thousand dollars for a doll you can fuck. Imagine the money we'd make if we provided them," she said, her eyes alight with mad glee, "With _real_ dolls."

His lips drew back in horror. "That's sick."

"They're already dead," she said matter-of-factly, "It's like putting out the trash. Once it hits the curb, it's public property."

"But that's not why I need you," she said, talking a little faster now, "You know how to hunt. You were trained to track down all kinds of creatures."

"That's-"

"Listen!" she said, taking his face in her hands, "I have a lab, just outside of town in an old canning factory. I've been...building things."

He waited, more curious than fearful.

"I've had to stitch everything together with whatever I could find, bits of dead girls and plant life and animals on the side of the road, " she continued, "But you...you could bring in some real high quality stuff. You know how to do it..."

"I would never-"

"I've already got clients lined up. If they paid that much for dead snatch," she said, her fingertips hot on his cheeks, "What would they pay for _demon_ snatch?"

He stared at her, uncomprehending. And then his face split in a smile, and he began to laugh.

"...what's so funny?" she asked, her voice flat.

He tried to reply, but laughed even harder, rolling off of her until he fell into the grass, giving as little "oof!" as the breath was knocked out of him.

"Stop laughing at me!" she demanded.

"You don't have any idea, do you?" he said, clutching his stomach and hiccuping from giggles.

"I know what I'm doing!" she said peevishly, "I know how to bind them. I read about demons," she said, scooting to the edge until her face was inches fro his, "Once you make a deal, they'll _have_ to do it, out of loyalty for the humans they serve."

"No, demons don't work like that," he said, just now noticing footsteps as he considered John's words, "They'll do it for the look on your face."

A shadow loomed behind the girl, a pair of hands in a filthy Sunday suit groping blindly for her head. Sam was about to warn her, when he noticed the car key dangling from her bootlace.

"By the way," he said, ripping it away, "Thanks for the ride."

"What-?" she began, cutting off in a shriek as the headless car crash victim plucked her off of the tombstone.

"Let...me...go!" she shouted, beating her fists against his back as she was carried away.

"I don't think he can hear you," Sam shouted after her, scooping up the dead man's head like a smelly soccer ball, "Alas poor Yorick, I think that chick needs to spend less time at Hot Topic."

It was a short walk to the parking lot, the leaves crunching beneath his feet as her screams faded in the distance. He knew the canning factory she was talking about, it would be a short drive once he found her car...

He rounded the corner, and thought he would be sick.

"Of course." he said disdainfully, unlocking the driver's side door and imagining Dean's fits of laughter if he ever caught Sam driving home in a hearse.

* * *

><p>It was dawn by the time she crawled out of the ground again, spitting out grass and the occasional earthworm as she went.<p>

"Frickin' hunters." she hissed, laying on her stomach with her eyes shut.

Two shotguns clicked behind her head. "Mind repeating that?"

Her eyes snapped open. "Aw crap, it's _you_ guys."


	11. Fuck the Evil Out of You

"You get it all?" John asked, the chain still latched from inside the motel door.

"Yeah," said Dean, passing some plastic bags thru the crack, "Weird shopping list."

John took a VHS tape out of a bag.

"THAT," Dean said, pointing at it, "You better appreciate that, do you have any idea how tired I am?"

"It'll make things easier. While you're at it, get my music collection out of the car, I need something."

"What kinda exorcism you doing to this chick?" Dean asked, handing over the cassettes.

"It's not an exorcism," he said, opening the bags to examine the contents, "Those tattoos on her arms, the ink's mixed with all kinds of crap, blood and venom and powdered pufferfish. They bind the black magic to her."

"So what, burn 'em off?"

"Nah, there's a ritual that will cancel them out. She'll still have the tats, they just won't do anything," he said, holding up a film cannister and shaking it, "Like demagnetizing a credit card."

"Yeah, speakin' a' which," Dean said, eyeing the cannister, "That right there cost us three hundred. The hell is it?"

John smiled. "High quality."

"You're okay with spending this much money on the girl?" he said bitterly, eyeing the bandage on John's shoulder, "I mean, she shot you for one."

"She wouldn't be the first."

"And for all we know she summoned that revenant out of the lake."

"We don't know that for sure," John said, "Though I intend to find out."

"She's a menace."

"She's a rookie."

"She had a half dozen undead lying around when we found her, and if her aim had been any better she'd have ventilated you," Dean argued, frustrated that John was taking this so lightly, "I mean come on, why go to all this trouble to fix someone who wants to kill you?"

It was a good question, and to be honest, if John had bagged her a week ago he'd have put a bullet in her brain and tossed her back in her boyfriend's grave. But putting Sam in the ground had softened him, and he was more inclined to give young people second chances.

"She's just a kid," John replied, looking into Dean's eyes, and for a second remembering that night three years ago, "She doesn't know what she wants."

Once they'd found the necromancer, they'd roped and gagged her before she'd have a chance to summon forth any more undead groupies, and so long as she wasn't near places of power, she was harmless.

She was in the back room now, still gagged and shivering from having all the grave dirt hosed off, but eerily quiet. As far as the hunters knew, she was some mallrat with a magic 8-ball and a penchant for zombie dick. They didn't know about her lab, about her little Franken-Hooker business, and she was expecting an interrogation any minute now.

"So what do you need me for?" Dean asked.

"I need you," John replied, handing him a map, "To check out these addresses. She'll have socked her magic items away somewhere remote, and these are the only vacant structures I could find in the area."

"And if I find something, then what?" Dean asked, looking over the spots circled in red.

"Burn it."

* * *

><p>John locked the door, he didn't want to be interrupted. The rite for cancelling out those marking on her arms might take hours. He got on the phone.<p>

"Professor, you get a look at those old Hindi papers I asked about?" John asked.

"Yeah John, where you find this?"

"Long story, you get a translation?"

"Well, it's a little vague. The ritual starts with an incantation for activating some sigils-"

_The tattoos_, John thought.

"-then you have to 'reify the goddess in the vassal'-"

"The hell does that mean?" John asked.

"This is all fertility god black magic, I guess you sacrifice a male by, I dunno, castration? Make him a woman somehow? It doesn't say."

John grimaced. "What else does it say?"

"Then the necromancer has to consecrate the vassal."

"Consecrate? How?"

John could hear the professor smile over the phone. "How do you think?"

He tapped his thumb against his belt, thinking. "Thanks man, I owe you."

Closing the phone and dropping it on the table, he opened the bedroom door an inch to look at her. She glared balefully at him, a hot mess of hips and boobs and red hair all trussed up in bungee cord.

_Well Little Red_, he thought as he walked in, _Looks like I'll have to fuck the evil out of you._

* * *

><p>That particular motel only offered queen-sized beds, with a sofa in the adjoining room. Her hands were secured to a rope around her waist, and then tied behind her to the bottom of the headboard. She glared angrily thru a curtain of wet hair as he rolled a TV into the room.<p>

"I've got some errands to run," he said, popping the hard-won tape into a VHS player, "So don't you go nowhere."

She growled against the cloth between her teeth, thrashing against the bed. He knew he couldn't force her to perform the rite. Free will played a big role in black magic, and he'd have to go a long way to make her a willing participant. Thus the shopping list.

John smiled amiably and pulled a hand-rolled cigarette, part tobacco and part something else, from the film cannister.

"The problem with you ladies," he said, removing the gag, the cig hanging from his lip, "Is you're no good at turning your head off."

And quick as a snake, he grabbed her nose, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. She struggled under his grip, her cheeks puffed out as she fought to keep her mouth shut.

"Oh come on, you can't hold your breath forever." he said, turning his head and flicking his lighter with his free hand.

She stared up hatefully at him, wishing she could bite his hand. When it looked as though she would have to exhale, John sucked on the cigarette, holding it in.

"Waah!" she said, and before she had time to inhale, he grabbed her jaw, and filled her mouth with warm, sweet smoke.

She coughed. "Motherfucker-"

"Aaaand exhale." he said, giving her another shot. He did it over and over, until her eyes had a slightly glazed look, and he deemed her ready for the next step.

"I hope you liked that," he said, "This shit's expensive."

Her neck suddenly felt loose as a noodle, and she rolled her head in a circle, more relaxed than she'd felt in a long time.

"That's right," he said, pressing play on the VHS player before walking out of the room, "Enjoy the show."

He'd sent Dean to fetch all kinds of weird ingredients for rituals before. It was nothing to request a pint of weasel brains and a spinster's toenail clippings. Dean usually didn't get sent to hang out in a gym and videotape himself on a weight machine for an hour.

She stared, confused as to what she was seeing. The camera had been set at the base of the machine, close to the weights themselves, long black bricks labeled in multiples of ten. A cable connected to a thick steel cylinder nestled in a well, punching thru the weights.

Dean's hand shoved a pin in a slot to adjust the weight, then moved off camera.

The steel cylinder raised in the air, hole-punched along the front like an old-fashioned flute, and then slid slowly back into the well. She could hear a grunt off-camera as he released it, the light glinting off the rod's oiled surface as it slid back into the well.

For half an hour, she sat on the dusty mattress, hypnotized by the vertical motion of the steel rod appearing to drag itself in and out of that hole, while Dean panted and cursed in the background, the weights clanking together, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes hanging in mid-air for a few seconds before slamming down again with a "ah fuck" accompanying it.

The monotony soothed her. She was warm now, the smoke making her break out in a sweat as she felt a blush creep over her face, her breasts hardening under her damp shirt, the fabric chafing at her tender flesh. _Damn I could use a cock right about now..._ she thought.

In the other room, she thought she heard John say something in...well it wasn't English, and her body got even warmer at the thought of him returning.

_What is wrong with me?_ she thought, and turning back to the TV, she suddenly wished she could get these clothes off, felt her hips moving a little in time with the steel rod.

She stopped when a knock came at the door.

"I haven't had a thing to eat all day," John said, walking in with a dinner plate and a folder full of hand-written papers, "Mind if I sit here?"

Her mouth watered when the smell hit her. Usually a soup and salad girl, she found herself leaning forward, watching with heavy lidded eyes as he sat down to the little table and began to cut into his sixteen ounce sirlion steak. He'd fried it in butter, barely letting each side touch the skillet before tossing it back on the plate, so that blood ran down the corner of his mouth as he chewed.

"Took me a while to find anything on those markings of yours," he said between bites, "Very old, the only stuff I could dig up was from north India."

She wasn't listening. Butter and pink drippings ran down his chin, and she suddenly itched all over, wanting to scratch herself on the greasy stubble of his face.

"Used to be," he continued, pouring himself a measure of bourbon, "That women could invoke the goddess Kali to beg favors."

The bourbon poured out slowly, clinging to the sides of the glass, and her head lolled like a helium balloon on a string, fascinated as some of his drink spilled down his neck, trailing into the course black hairs peeking out his shirt collar.

"By inscribing certain words of power on their body, reciting a few choice prayers, and then sealing the deal by...how did they phrase it..." he said, picking up one of the papers from the folder.

She gritted her teeth, why did her tattoos itch so much? The ropes stretched against her wrist, and she sat up on her knees to try and use her weight to weaken them.

"...Claiming the red elephant', which I believe is Sanskrit for 'fucking a dead guy'."

The TV continued to play, the steel rod falling into the wall and then withdrawing, though never all the way out, with Dean's litany of half-breathed dirty talk in the background. She hauled against the rope, her knees splitting wider and farther apart as she did so, until her sex was flat against the coverlet, naked under her skirt.

"You didn't wanna hold onto those powers for too long though," he said, "All kinds of side-effects, vestigial limbs and brain leakage and such. Gotta relinquish your abilities at some point. Fortunately," he said, smiling as he took another bite of raw meat, "That shouldn't be too much of a problem."

The coverlet chafed her inner thighs as she contorted herself, trying to get some slack, though the hard knot between her legs craved the friction more than release.

"So you have a choice," he said, "Either you can let me perform the reversal rite, after which I'll happily send you home in a cab and never darken your doorway again, or I can call the young man, who's been doing bicep curls for the last..." he checked the time on the video, "...let's see, forty minutes straight, to come by and wring your neck."

Her eyes darted to the TV screen.

"Your choice."

She licked her lips nervously.

"He doesn't normally work out that long, see," he said, "Means he's been having a bad week. Working thru some personal issues. And if I weren't in such a forgiving mood, I'd have let him work out those issues on you."

"Why haven't you killed me?" she said, her brain starting to pierce the fog of whatever he'd given her.

"You're smart. And you could be really impressive if you'd just stay out of trouble," he said, wondering where Sam was now, "Reminds me of someone is all."

Her hips swiveled against the bed. Her arms were on fire, as if someone had run copper wires thru her veins and flicked on the power. She wanted to scrub herself on the coverlet, on the carpet, anything, like a dog rubbing its' back on the grass, and her eyes lingered on the hair on his arm as he reached for his drink again.

What did he feel like under his shirt? she wondered.

He reached into one of the plastic bags, and pulled out a little black zipper pouch

"What's that?" she asked warily, though she knew exactly what it was before he opened and laid it flat.

He pulled out his lighter and flicked it open, the flame licking at the steel as he sterilized the scalpel. "I think you've seen this sort of equipment before."

Her stomach wobbled, scared of what would come next.

"You're a scientist," he said, standing up with the blade in one hand, "These days you need a degree in biology to get anything right with necromancy. So I trust," he said, cutting her bindings, "That you know how to do a little amateur surgery?"

She hesitated, not sure what he was asking her to do. But he took her hand, leading her gently away from the bed. His skin was rough, but warm and inviting against her pale slender fingers.

"You're lucky you only hit my shoulder this morning." he said, sitting down by the table again and removing the bandages.

She shook her head, gripping the scalpel unsteadily. Damn she was so stoned, what if she screwed up?

The wound was small, the shape of a valentine candy. She swallowed, as he turned off the TV and sat back down. "What do you want me to do?"

"It's your bullet, Little Red," he said, looking up at her with an evil glitter in his eyes, "You want it back?"

She could have killed him right then. He was unarmed, just sitting there.

He saw these thoughts flit across her face. "It's okay," he whispered, "I trust you."

_Go on,_ he thought, amused, _Make me a woman._

He's hiding something, she thought, he's way too eager. The blade was inches from his throat, one cut and he'd bleed out. One cut. Just do it, she thought.

But the image from that TV video was burned into her brain, her sex a hot wet misery between her legs, and pushing her thoughts of revenge away, she climbed onto the chair, straddling his lap.

He held onto her hips to keep her in place, smelling of blood and booze and cooking grease, and it was all she could do not to lick his face.

"I have to..." she said, clearing her head, "I have to widen it to get it out."

He nodded, and she pressed the scalpel to his skin.

John had been shot at so many time he'd lost count. It still hurt like hell, but the blade was sharp, and the drugs he'd shared with her dulled the pain. Plus his surgeons usually weren't hot angry sexpots, which helps.

He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth but not saying anything as she opened him up.

She couldn't help feel his erection underneath her, his fingernails as they dug into her hips. "Are you okay?"

He breathed thru his nose. "Keep going."

She was panting now, watching his face set in concentration and frankly very turned on now that she was the one in control. "I"m gonna reach in and get it okay?"

He nodded stiffly. Normally you'd remove a bullet with forceps, but she always preferred getting her hands dirty and when would she get this opportunity again?

She ran her finger over the wound, slicking it with blood and circling the sides gently.

"John..." she whispered, and leaning in to kiss him, she drove her finger into the wound.

The sigils on her arms burned, lighting up the room with an eldritch glow as she bore down on him, feasting on his lips as he struggled beneath her, searching blindly for the hard knot trapped between his muscles.

"I've almost...got it." she said, her face pressed against his cheek, relishing the scratchy feel of his skin, "Almost..."

He twisted against her, hissing as she scrabbled inside that bloody oyster for the black pearl lodged inside, but she swallowed his protests with another kiss, her free hand grabbing the back of his head and savoring the taste of blood on his tongue. The knot between her legs pressed against his belt buckle, hungry for a different kind of meat.

"There." she said, the bullet clattering to the floor.

He sat for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath, hands on her hips. But she was impatient. Her arms were still glowing faintly, so that her face was underlit, bringing out out the shadows in her cheeks and eyes as she began to undo her buttons down the front.

She was so young. Her breasts sat high on her chest, ripe with faint blue veins running thru them, and John couldn't help but be transfixed by them as she opened her shirt to him.

They eyed each for a second, as if agreeing on some secret contract, and then he smiled, the pain forgotten.

"You're going a little fast," he said, reaching to cup one milky breast in his calloused hand, "How bout I put on some music?"

She flushed, she wasn't used to her partners talking back, but said nothing as he reached to press play on the tape cassette player. "I like to take my time," he said, "It's better for you in the long run anyway, you gotta be...ready for it."

She snarled, taking his face in her hands and kissing him savagely, she _was_ ready, ready to rip off his clothes and take him right there in that chair, but he grabbed her wrists. "You keep tussling like that and you're gonna set me off," he said with a sideways smile, "Just wait til the end of the first song, alright?_"_

She relaxed, his hands letting go of her wrists to trail down the inside of her forearms, reaching inside her shirt, a finger tracing the swell of her breast.

And as Led Zeppelin's_ Black Mountain Side_ began to play in the background, he leaned forward, watching her anxious expression, as he opened his mouth.

She craned her neck, surprised at the feel of a living man this time. All of her lovers had been eager, but none of them this warm, and she laced her fingers thru his hair as she pressed him to her, his hands snaking around to knead the curve of her back.

He alternated from one to another, her hips rocking against him as she loosened up to the music, halfway to coming just on the slick steel of his belt buckle but needing that extra contact deep inside. "Ah damn you're making me so wet." she whispered.

She could feel him smile against her breast, and the next song began. "You wanna undress me now?"

Finally, she thought, and reached down to undo that wretched chastity belt of his, yanking at the zipper and digging thru his boxers until she found what she wanted. He didn't comment, just leaned back in the chair, smiling as she unwrapped him.

"...you're big," she said, looking a little intimidated, "...might take me a minute."

"It's your call."

She sat over him, parting the lips of her cunt with two slender fingers as she took his cock in the other hand.

"Ah, you're so warm..." she said, impaling herself on him, lowering herself a little at a time until she had swallowed all of him.

"Give me your mouth." she said, reaching for his head and pulling him toward her breast again. And using him to distract her from the pain, she pictured the video from earlier, the rod lifting and dropping from the oiled well, and began to push off from the chair.

She could feel every line of his cock, every groove and contour as she drew herself up and down, his mouth warm against her skin. Her dead men had been good, but they hadn't filled her like this, and as she moaned, the room became bright with the sigils on her arms.

But it wasn't enough. The chair only let her legs bend so much, and she couldn't get him right where she needed it. Her face twisted in frustration, his cock was so close to what she needed...

John had noticed this as well. The ink was changing shape on her skin, as if he were trying to read it under water, and he realized he'd have to do a lot more for the magic to work.

He lifted her from the chair, still joined to her, and kneeling on the floor, he sat her gently on the edge of the bed. "Let me have a turn?" he asked.

She nodded, and he hooked his arms under her knees, clasping his hands behind her back. His knees would not thank him for this in the morning, but whatever.

He kissed her, and gave an experimental thrust, so deep inside of her that she bit down on his lip and drew blood.

"Ah John..." she croaked, "Aaah I can feel you..."

"You're good?"

"Oh don't stop, please..." she said, as his cock slammed over and over, like a machine, pumping into her as if hoping to hollow her out, hitting that hot little knot hidden inside.

He didn't know how long he could keep this up, the bed was old and he had to work to support her weight. "I'm gonna move."

He picked her up a final time, leaning her against the headboard, and she began to scratch at her tattoos. "John please," she begged, her cheeks a high color, "Finish me, I feel like I'm on fire."

"Wrap your legs around my waist," he said, wondering how long he'd last now, "Hold onto me."

And taking her hair in his left hand, he dropped his right hand between her legs, and found the spot she'd been too scared to touch so far.

That seemed to do it. He thrust into her again, and she clenched down, the final piece falling into place.

"Ah, I'm really close..." she said, her plum mouth next to his, "Will you come with me?"

"I..."

"I need to feel you inside of me." she demanded, the magic so thick in the air now that it came off of her like a greasy vapor, eldritch power leaking from her pupils.

He hadn't actually considered finishing like this, he didn't feel it'd be right. But sex rites were always tricky like that, and he only had a moment to decide.

He buried his face in her hair, and let a film reel run in his head.

He hadn't been with a woman in a long time, never really felt the need what with hunting and keeping the boys in line. But when he was alone in the shower, he had a few options to choose from, usually film stars or girls he'd bedded back in his soldiering days.

Drugs'll do funny things to your head though. He pictured one sexpot after another, but nothing really worked. His whole body was an erogenous zone at this point, and it was hard to focus, to pool it down to one point.

"I...I can't." he said.

She snarled. She was imagining someone else too, a dead ex-lover of hers, one who never interrupted her reverie. She grabbed John's face, regaining control. "Don't...speak."

Something uncurled in the back of his brain, the look on Dean's face that night three years ago. The boy's hands on his legs under the blanket. That eager, young mouth going down on him, bringing him to climax before climbing up and parting John's legs.

That was as far as Dean had gotten before John had reclaimed his sense and sent him sailing across the room with a single kick to the chest. But now, all this time later, he wondered if he should have let the boy keep going...

"Ah John..." she said, her body rocking against him as if she would die.

He imagined Dean's face on the pillow, his face twisted in the same expression, saying the same words...

The room exploded with light, her mouth and eyes blazing as they pitched against the headboard, her wet cunt closing down on him like a rosebud blooming in reverse.

And with a final thought for the boy who wasn't there, he smashed into her, filling her until she was overrun with his love.

* * *

><p><strong>tbc<strong>


	12. Vagina Dentata

Sam lifted a cinder block out if the weeds and smashed the chain, the fence creaking as it swung open. The canning factory had shut down decades ago, the windows darkened by creeping vines and high grass.

He should have gone straight to the motel, bring the others for back-up. But he had to make sure the factory was a threat in the first place. The girl could have constructed a nightmare, a bestial mockery of a whore with bulbous red eyes and breasts like black jelly. Or she could've stapled tentacles to her beanie baby collection, either way he had to know what they were dealing with.

"Ech," he said, his foot narrowly avoiding a centipede the size of his thumb. The factory hadn't seen sunlight in years, and he shuddered to think what else lived within.

And holding his cigarette lighter aloft, he stepped inside.

* * *

><p>Knock at the door. "John?" Dean asked, "I'm back."<p>

John stared at the wet tiles. He'd been jerking off in the shower for nearly a half hour, with no success.

"Be right out." he answered, shutting the water off.

Dean walked back to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of orange dish soap to scrub the grime off his arms.

"What's with the music?" John asked, as the languid guitar strains of_ I Can't Quit You Baby_ spooled from the cassette player.

"Tape was already in there," Dean said, his muscles glistening as smeared soap on himself, "Too damn quiet in here."

"Find anything?" John asked, trying to ignore the raging hard-on chafing against his bluejeans right now. Damn he hadn't been this horny since, well, since he was Dean's age. The drugs and the music were straight out his days in the Marines, back when he and the guys would spend their weekends picking up girls and generally being pains in the ass, and right now he could have fucked the Statue of Liberty.

Once he dried off, Dean stood away from the counter, not trusting himself to lean on anything in case he fell over, he was so tired. "Yes sir. Canning factory outside of town."

"And?"

"And...damn that girl," Dean said, impressed against his will, "She's been building monsters."

John was not surprised. The necromancer, whom he'd managed to stuff in a cab in some of Sam's old clothes before Dean's return, was extremely bright for her age, and being self-taught in black magic, elective surgery, and boning dead guys, she was an easy fit for a mad scientist.

Part of him wished he hadn't sent her home so early. The drugs weren't wearing off any time soon, and he wanted this conversation with Dean over with so he could leave and find a hooker somewhere.

"She could have run a carnie show with the creatures she had in there," Dean continued, turning to look out the window, "Had a laboratory all tricked out, don't know where she stole her equipment-"

"She did have any people locked up in there?" John interrupted. He kept snatching glances at Dean's back, at his sculpted ass and the way his biceps filled his shirt sleeves. The hooker wouldn't be enough, he realized.

"No sir," Dean said, "In fact if I didn't know better, I'd say somebody got there before me and killed all her pets for us."

* * *

><p>The factory had belonged to a major dairy family, once the primary employer in the area. Now all was quiet, the machines pushed against the wall to make room for dissection equipment, operating tables, and row upon row of fifty-gallon barrels whose contents sloshed menacingly when Sam tried to open one.<p>

But the most impressive part were the tubs. Twelve of them, burnished to a shine, each one big enough to take an entire cow lying on it's side. Sam's reflection warped in the steel as his lighter grew hot in his hand, and he noted the little placards taped on the sides.

"Trapper: Barbed hair." he whispered, shining the flame over the surface of the water. At the bottom, a faint outline could be seen, her black hair reaching the length of her body with hooks clinking gently at the ends.

"Yokai" read another card. He remembered reading about them in Japanese lore, women cursed with a second mouth in the back of their skull.

"Cephalopod" (tentacled), "Encephalovore" (brain-eater), Non-Venomous (swallows prey whole)" His hand glided across the surface of the warm bathwater, ashamed at the blush growing in his face.

The next three were empty, webbed footprints trailing away in the dust, and he made a mental note to tell Dean the second he went back to the motel.

The final placard was written hastily in pencil, as if the necromancer were unsure about the salability of this particular concept, the title a gray smudge followed by "-dentata-"

Sam reached down, fingers floating over the sleeper's face. "Teeth feel okay," he muttered, "So what's your trick?"

Holding the lighter aloft, he climbed into the blood-warm water, feet planted on either side of his troubled reflection with only a hint of the dead girl's shadow beneath it.

He encircled her waist with his free hand, pulling her up to the surface, her wet hair weighing her head down. Though she had probably died weeks ago, the necromancer's concoction had sustained her, so that she appeared to be dreaming. A thin silk casing clung to her to like a cocoon, mummifying plump breasts and a firm, rounded belly.

He carried her to a nearby dissection table, laying her gently as he lit a stubby candle on the tool tray.

"What are you?" he whispered, and grasping the sticky silk webbing between her breasts, excited as a kid in a candy shop, he tore it off and unwrapped her.

She had died young, probably a drug overdose judging by the needle tracks along the inside of her arm. But otherwise she was unchanged. The other girls were visibly altered...

"So what did she do to you?" he said, cupping her cheek as he searched her face.

He kissed her soft mouth, finding her warm to the touch, and let his hand wander down her neck, still cobwebbed with the remains of her bindings. Would she awaken?

Climbing onto the table, he lay on top of her, kissing her again while his hand traveled under the webbing, down, down, to the shadow between her legs. She tasted sweet and clean, her tongue wet against his as he opened her mouth, and when his fingers found her...

"Ah..." he said, having the answer at last, and he smiled at the necromancer's ingenuity. Removing the last of the white sheathe from her lower half, he spread her legs to get a better look.

"You are so beautiful." he said, parting her pink petals to reveal the row of fangs within. The next thing he knew he was wrapping his arms underneath her legs to grab her hips. He had to see what she tasted like.

The little teeth pressed against his lips, his cock hard against the steel table as he imagined what she would feel liked in re-life, her cruel sex clamping down on him, unmanning him at the height of her pleasure.

"Nnn..." His tongue darted inside her as he released a hand to tend to the stinger between his own legs, drinking her in. He could've finished right there, he'd spent the morning thinking about the necromancer and half-wishing he'd taken her up on the offer.

Besides, who was he hurting?

He sat up, wiping his mouth, and leaned over to kiss her again as he slid two fingers inside of her. She was not well-used, the sides clinging to him invitingly. Spitting into his hand, he took a deep breath, and slid inside.

Her fangs were imbedded deep inside the muscle, sensitive to pressure, so that you hardly felt them at all provided you went slowly. He took long. careful strokes, his eyes shut in concentration as her sex scraped his throbbing cock.

She wouldn't wake up. That wasn't the point though, she _might_ wake up, at which point she'd be one pissed-off revenant with her lamprey cunt lips wrapped around him, and this thought alone kept him to the edge, luring him to finish.

"You feel so good..."

A little noise bubbled in her lungs, and his eyes snapped open. "Hello?" he whispered, gliding tortuously slowly in and out of her tight sex, afraid if he went any faster he'd spill into her. He pressed a hand to her chest.

Her mouth filled, seawater leaking out the edges of her mouth, pooling on either side of the table.

_It's alive_. he thought in horror, and, unable to control himself, he drove into her, the little fangs extending to snatch at his tender flesh.

He screamed, stopping once he was buried in her to the hilt. But he could feel his end coming, he couldn't stop now...

"Ah, you're hurting me..." he said, grabbing her hair.

And kissing her fiercely, he moaned into her mermaid mouth, pumping into her until the black wave of release crashed down, and he passed out on top of her.

* * *

><p>"So nothing's alive in there?" John asked.<p>

"Yes sir." he said quietly. Dean had been hanging onto the hope that Sam might still be out there, somewhere. Now...

"You're sure?"

"I burned it, all of it, like you said," he said

Dean had had time to think while scouting locations. John was a cold-blooded bastard, but his behavior lately had been...off. You don't moon over the photograph of your dead wife for years and then do nothing when another family member bites the dust. He was beginning to wonder if John had anything to do with Sam's death, and, if that were the case, what his motivations might have been.

The lamplight cast their shadows on the opposite wall, faceless figures that might have been anyone. John tried to disassociate himself, they were just two men in a motel room, but his afternoon with the girl had spoiled him, and he wanted nothing so much now than to have another tight young thing shuddering at the end of his naked cock.

"Though," Dean continued, his brows drawing up, "Some of the containers she kept the creatures in were empty, you think some of them may have wandered off?"

"Maybe," John said, tearing his eyes away from the boy to search for his wallet, "I gotta take care of some things, how 'bout you get some sleep and we can hunt the extras you missed in the morning-"

"Wait, what's so important that's gotta be done at this time of night?" Dean asked, barely able to stand without swaying, " I mean, we still gotta go bury Sam."

John couldn't look at him, Dean would have seen the lie on his face. "He'll be there in the morning."

Dean stared at him in the darkened window reflection. He was secretly relieved, he didn't really want to see that mangled corpse again, but that John could be so cavalier about it only confirmed his suspicions. Would John really go so far as to kill his own flesh and blood?

"What?" John asked, noticing his expression.

Dean stared out the window in his eternal vigil. "I screwed up." he said, his voice cracking.

"What're you talking about?"

"I should have kept an eye on him."_ And kept him safe from you_, he thought, _But how safe am I?_

John edged nearer. "It's not your fault."

Dean tensed a little as he saw John approach, fear bubbling in his gut. "Since when have you ever screwed up?"

_Like I'm about to do right now?_ John thought, standing directly behind Dean, their shadows joined on the opposite wall.

"There's nothing out there." John said, reaching over Dean's shoulder to pull the blinds down.

Dean shivered a little at the brief contact. There would be no more excuses to keep him alive for Sam's sake. He was completely at John's mercy.

"You need to sleep."

Dean was about to argue, when he felt a hand reach for his belt buckle. A fevered hand ran inside his bluejeans, palming the hope that had lay waiting for the last three years.

Dean's mouth fell open, his brain kicking into low gear as fingers closed around his cock, gently pulling it upwards.

No woman had ever been able to touch him like that, they didn't understand the fine tuning involved, had always grabbed him like a joystick, but the fingers on him worked a secret knowledge that every boy taught himself at an early age.

John's hand was slow and hot on his skin, his chin on Dean's shoulder as the guitar whined in the background.

"You want me to stop?"

"...no."

Their hips swiveled together in time to the music, John pressing his open mouth just below the boy's ear, relishing the response when the young man's knees threatened to buckle. Dean raised a hand to press John to his neck, clutching his dark curls, rocking against the hardness in the older man's bluejeans.

Dean tasted salty from a hard day's work, sweat mixed with soot and the teenage tang of desperation, and John licked a line to his ear before baring his teeth.

"Ah..." Dean said, and John loosened his grip, knowing the boy must be close already.

"Well we can't stand here all night," John said, letting go and stepping back a pace, "You're gonna fall asleep on your feet."

Dean turned to look at him over his shoulder, just as John peeled off his cotton shirt. Even in the sickly lamplight, his back looked like it was carved from wood. John let the shirt fall to the floor.

"Time for bed." he said, before the darkness of the bedroom swallowed him.

Dean stood there stupidly for a few seconds, staring at the black doorway as if it were the cave of some fearsome beast.

_Ah Sam, where the hell are you?_ he thought. The car keys sat on the little table by the door. John was probably still messed up from the dark magic, he could sleep in the car tonight and they'd both wake up tomorrow and pretend it never happened.

_Right_, his cock said, staring up at him with it's one eye, _You're gonna spurn the guy that you'll have to depend on for the next several years? Every day, hunting, hustling, driving, putting your life in his hands, and not looking each other in the eye, just pretending there's nothing there? _That's_ healthy._

_But Sam... _Dean thought.

_...is dead. Time to settle kiddo. Could be a lot worse._

He knew not to listen to his dick, it knew it would be getting a free ticket to Disneyland if Dean walked into that bedroom.

_Sam where the hell are you?_ he thought, as he leaned on the doorframe, for once wishing someone would tell him what to do, and stepped inside.

But John could see perfectly. He stood at the foot of the bed, staring at the boy's silhouette as he peeled off his own shirt. Dean held a hand out in front of him, blind without his night vision.

"Here." he said, guiding his hand to his belt, "On your knees."

"Yes sir."

John didn't think he could finish that easily, after so much time spent in the shower, but Dean's nervousness, his willingness to please, stirred the heat in his belly.

Metal clinked in the dark. The boy's hands reached around to grab his hips, and he opened his mouth to take him.

John rocked back on his boots. "Ah fuck..."

The boy took him hungrily, relishing the power it gave over him, eager for all the little noises he could extract from John. His warm, sweet mouth slid back and forth, taking it like no woman knew how, lips dragging over every inch as if he were a candy.

He tried to back away, but the boy kept him close.

"Not so fast..." John croaked.

But the boy had wrung himself out a thousand times thinking about this night, and he wasn't about to submit his body to a man who would only last ten seconds. He had to 'gun the engine', as it were, make sure he could last for the long ride ahead.

John came hard and fast, and he wasn't done but five seconds later the boy was taking him into his mouth again.

"Wait." John said, pulling the boy's hair away.

Dean blinked, "What'd I do wrong?"

"It's the ones you left behind," John said, buttoning up his pants, "I'll rest easier knowing there's nothing lurking out there."

Dean stayed on his knees, dumbstruck. "So..."

"So I want you to go out and do your job," John said, lifting the boy to his feet, "And afterwards..."

Dean was about to argue, but John grabbed jaw between thumb and forefinger. "I ain't going anywhere," he said, his thigh pressed between the boy's legs, "Hurry back."

* * *

><p>"The hell..." Sam muttered when he came too. The candle had long ago burned out, and something like cotton candy came away in his hand.<p>

"Egh..." he said, his stomach turning as his memory resurfaced, "Oh no no..."

He'd gone and done it now. A dead girl. A dead _monster_ girl.

"Dean..." Dean could never know.

He clutched his hair, casting about desperately for something he could use to hide the evidence.

"A lamp." he whispered, noticing a portable handlamp hanging by a hook on the wall, it's long orange cable spooled by a generator. As he cranked it into life, the little light hummed in his hand, so bright he had to look away for a few seconds.

_I heard the monsters always came to life with a bolt of lightning_, he thought, a nervous giggle escaping him.

"I wish we didn't have to meet like this." he said, dragging the girl back into the water.

"I wish I knew your name," he said, dangling the electric lamp over the edge, and taking a last look at her slumbering face.

A tear ran down one side of his face. "I wish things could have been better for you."

It didn't take long.

He hit each tub, and by the time Sam had finished, the factory smelled like hot fish soup, and he couldn't wait to get out into the fresh air again. He wiped the tears from his face, more tired than he'd felt in his whole life.

"Crap, now where's the front entrance?" he said, feeling around blindly. His lighter had run out of butane and he'd completely destroyed the hand lamp, but providing he followed the wall, he should be able to make it out again.

"Aha, the door." A knob turned in his hand, but the inside was still dark. A storage closet?

He took a step inside, and realized it was a set of stairs leading up. "How big is this place?"

Keeping a sweaty grip on the railing, he spiraled upwards until his head hit a metal grating, just big enough for one man to push thru. A few heaves and a shower of rust later, and he was welcomed with a square of purple sunset sky.

"Hello?" he asked, "Anyone up here?"

He bent over to pick up a little placard fluttering in the breeze. The others had been black with print, describing the creature's abilities, hunting method, diet, et cetera. This one had only three words.

NOT FOR SALE

At the edge of the roof, in a little garden moored in by rain barrels and neatly packed mulch, was the tallest thorn tree Sam had ever seen, a mass of spindly black branches stretched against the dusk like a tornado standing in place.

_Now what lives in there?_ he wondered. The branches swayed rhythmically, like a sleeping giant, little pink blooms curled around the ends of otherwise leafless stems. It smelled like honey and...girls.

One of the flowers noticed his approach, it's petals producing a high sybilant hiss.

"I'm S-sam." he stuttered. Could it hear him?

All of the flowers turned to face him now. "Ssssssssssssam..." they echoed in chorus.

He was about to take a step forward, when he heard the roar of the Impala.

_Dean!_ he thought, _He's come for me,_ and he turned away toward the sound, just as a tendril wound it's way around his throat.

* * *

><p>It was the fastest kill of Dean's life so far. All these years John had used fear to keep them in line, to impress on the boys all those little details of basic survival. But the prospect of a... tangible reward made Dean reckless, charge in without knowing what he was really hunting, but he made up for everything with speed and pure brute force.<p>

Three heads dangled from his hand, their hair knotted around his fist like a bloody skein. After the necromancers modifications, they barely resembled humans.

He dropped them in the sink, stripping his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face. He should be exhausted, but his cock propelled him forward, his whole electrified at the prospect of John's hands on him.

He'd spent the car trip back thinking of all the things he wanted done to him, that gravelly voice whispering dirty things in his ear as he forced himself inside the boy. Heck, the voice alone would do him in, he could listen to John say "fuck" all day long, much less if the man was using him like a piece of meat.

But that would have to wait.

For there on the bed lay John, hands behind his head, a young, filthy boy squatting on his chest, a gun aimed at his head.

"Hello Father."


	13. Tree Rape

**WARNING: tree rape. But it ends with Wincest, so...**

* * *

><p>"Sammy, put the gun down." Dean said.<p>

"No," he said, not taking his eyes off of John, "I've been waiting for this."

"Then you can wait ten more minutes and tell us where the hell you've been." Dean insisted.

"You haven't told him?" Sam asked, his eyes narrowing at the old man on the bed.

"Hell's he talking about John?" Dean asked, confused.

John lay in repose, taking each question in turn. "No, I let him assume the worst," he said to Sam, before turning to Dean, "I had to see how he performed under pressure. I couldn't take the chance that he'd snap in the field."

"You buried me alive!" Sam shouted, the gun shaking in his hands.

"And lived to tell about it." John replied.

Sam snarled, lifting the gun high above his head and striking John against the temple. "Well I brought you something," he said, pressing the barrel against the corner of his mouth, "I carried it all the way from my grave you miserable bastard."

John laughed, a low dark note in his chest.

"What's so funny?" Sam asked.

"Did you bring one of your pets as well?"

Sam blinked, and then looked over at Dean.

"What's he talking about?"

John and Dean exchanged glances.

"Sammy," Dean asked, suddenly tense, "Were you followed?"

And then the motel door exploded, a thorny cable splintering the wood like a battering ram.

"What is that?" Dean asked, fascinated as a vine threaded itself between the panels, tearing at the cheap plywood.

The blood drained out of Sam's face. "The fire didn't kill it."

It pulled back for another strike, the top hinge coming loose from the frame, the plaster cracking like eggshell.

"We have to go." Sam said, jumping off the bed toward Dean.

And as if on cue, the door flew off its hinges, a cloud of thorny tendrils lassoing across the room, and wrapping around Dean's ankles.

"Sammy!" he yelled, sliding across the carpet on his belly as he was yanked toward the exit.

"Dean, my hand!" Sam yelled, reaching out while holding onto a table leg, his hand greasy with flopsweat. They were dragged together, Dean bloodying his nails as he scrabbled for purchase on the kitchen linoleum.

"Don't let go!" Sam pleaded.

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but Sam's grip slackened, and the older boy was carried away into the dark, the monster's footsteps quickly fading as he was swept away into the forest.

Sam lay panting on the floor, arm still outstretched to the void.

"Deeeeeean!" he yelled.

"Get up," John said, walking past him to grab his shotgun, "We need to move."

"I didn't, I didn't think I was followed, and now it's got him-"

John turned Sam, and then bitch-slapped him so hard that he bounced against the opposite wall.

"That thing's gotta be burned to die?" John asked.

Sam sniffed, tasting blood in the back of his mouth. "Yes sir."

"Then I'm gonna need somebody to make hand grenades while I drive," he said, snatching the carkeys off the table, "We'll never catch it on foot."

"It ran into the woods," Sam said, cradling his swollen cheek, "How're we supposed to follow it in the car?"

"Creatures like that always return to a safe place."

"But Dean burned the factory."

"So what else does a tree need?"

"Sunlight..." Sam said, his mind racing, and then inspiration struck him, "And water."

"It'll need some place to hole up from us, though where something that massive could hide..." John said, tossing some clean clothes at the boy.

Sam looked down at his hands, smelling where Dean had been. "I think I know where it's going."

* * *

><p>John drove with the headlights off, the better to see into the woods. Sam felt around in the milk crate, finding the bottle he needed in the dark. All the labels had come off years ago, but he knew their contents like a spice rack.<p>

Taking an empty beer bottle in hand, he tipped in a teaspoon of aluminum powder and rolled down the window as the fumes bubbled up before corking it with a sock.

"We see this thing, I want you to take a shot first, slow it down," John said, reaching behind the seat for a box of buckshot, "No point in lobbing explosives if it's clocking twenty miles an hour."

"What if it's still got Dean when we see it?" Sam asked, taking the box uncertainly.

He wasn't looking up when he said this, and so was surprised when John grabbed his throat. "Don't...miss."

It was a warning. _Don't fuck this up._ Sam recoiled under his grip, those eyes glaring at him from the rearview mirror, but then noticed something.

_Why does John smell like Dean?_

John let go, having made his point, and Sam went back to his work, measuring out the ingredients in silence. He'd thought the hotel room had smelled...like sex. At first he'd ignored it, putting it down to two men too paranoid to crack a window in this summer heat, but now...John never touched Dean, hell John spent more quality time getting his hands caught in the engine block than he did handling his own boys.

"So this bridge, how'd you hear about it?" John asked, interrupting Sam's reverie, "All the ones I know from the county map are pretty well used."

"This one was never finished," Sam said, fishing for another bottle, his adam's apple still burning from John's thumb crushed against it, "It reaches about thirty feet over the river and just stops."

"And you know it because...?"

_Cuz Dean was going to take me there when you were asleep,_ Sam thought. He smiled bitterly, wondering if John would ever give them an opportunity to sneak off again. "Kids in my class go there to drink. But no one actually goes _under_ the bridge, that thing could nest there easy and nobody would come across it."

"So how does this thing kill you?"

Sam stared at the bottles, rattling nervously as the car picked up speed. "It rapes you to death."

* * *

><p>Sam felt a sting, and then nothing at all as the branches wrapped around his body, pulling him close in its thorny embrace.<p>

"Sssssssam..." it whispered, the pink flower edging close to his ear with its baby breathy voice.

He wasn't sleepy. He wasn't cold. He wasn't anything. The lack of pain, of bumps and bruises and injuries that never quite healed right, was greater than any drug, and it shocked him how he could have operated for so long without noticing it.

The flowers sang an eerie refrain in his ear, lulling him as they coiled around his weary limbs. And brushing along the length of his body, leaving sticky sweet trails wherever they landed, they began to congregate between his legs.

"Nnnnn..." he said, as he looked down and saw one of them nudge his sleeping cock, mewling like a thirsty kitten as a drop of honey spilled from between its tightly curled petals.

The nettles cradled him gently, digging into his skin until he was so numb from the poison that the pain seemed to belong to someone else.

"What..." he said. The rose opened a little, hungry for a honeybee sting, for him to forage inside it, and sought out the end of him clumsily.

It was soft at first, like bird wings, as it wound around him. And then it took in the entire length of him, and he stretched against the vines, too weak to snatch at them, too weak to even curl his hand into a fist.

"Sssssssam..." they whispered, and one of the roses pressed against his mouth, petals wet with dew. He tried to twist away as more caressed his face, hissing his name, all crowding about him like butterflies. Their need drew him out, and when he put his tongue to one of them, he discovered the sea-salt tang of...

"...girls." he said. And there, within the folds of each rose, he saw them, the pink rabbit nose of a clit, the neatly hidden sex beneath.

The rosebud fed on his cock, sliding slowly along him as if memorizing the taste, while the others kissed him toothlessly, promising a different kind of bite. It felt so strange, this disembodied lover, but he found himself responding in kind, they were so warm and wet, it all felt like an opium dream.

He couldn't hurt it, how could he possibly? It wasn't even a real girl anymore. And if it wanted to have its way with him, whatever that meant, who was he to say no?

"Sam?" said someone in the distance.

Sam opened his eyes. _Dean_.

Footsteps echoed in the factory below him. _He doesn't know about the roof entrance._

He tried to cry out, but a flower crammed itself in his mouth, petals expanding in his gullet until he nearly choked. "Mmmmrr!"

He tried wrestling against the tree, but he was nearly paralyzed from the intoxicant, and could only manage a feeble kick that barely shook the nearest branch.

Down below, he could hear Dean opening canisters, shoving furniture this way and that, water sloshing over the floor as a tub was knocked to the side.

Sam tried spitting the flower out his mouth, but it stayed in place, doggedly keeping him gagged. Meanwhile, the other rose was working him fast, making him so hard that it had trouble taking in all of him.

"Sam? You in here?" Dean said.

_I'm up here!_ Sam thought, and cursed himself for not parking the stolen hearse in front of the factory where he might have been noticed.

The rose dragged tightly on him, eager for him to surrender, and his stomach soured at the thought of losing himself to this monster, of shaming himself like this. He tried to think of Dean, of a familiar face and arms around him.

But the flower's poison was in his blood, and all his memories fizzled against this one dirty hunger. The tree didn't want his love or his mind or the pleasure of his company. It wanted him to come, hard and hot, and it would service him with the unawakened cunts of a dozen dead girls if that's what it took.

_Mustn't...fail_, he thought, too late as he bit down on his lower lip, sweat beading on his forehead. The thorns clasped tight on his limbs, wrapping around his waist as his hips moved in time with the rose.

And just as he was getting close, the flower in his mouth twisted, curling up small, and forced itself down his throat.

_The hell..._

He didn't gag. He didn't have time, for a second later it was lodged in his stomach, the flower dilating like an origami bird, and he would have been more scared if he weren't so distracted by the rosebud on his cock, pumping feverishly, keeping him on the delirious edge of ecstasy.

His breath came faster, eyes widening as he watched the vine in his mouth squirm, pulsing ominously as something crawled down the length of it like mice in the belly of a serpent.

_Dean, what the hell is this thing doing to me?_ he wanted to scream, as he felt himself about to give in to the rose.

He closed his eyes, he didn't have to lose to this thing, if he just focus, think about anything else...

But the first thing that came to his mind was Dean, Dean on his back, Dean begging to be made, flushed with desire...and fear.

_You're worse than John_, he'd say, his eyes black with lust.

He could see it now, grabbing the older boy's shoulder for support, picking up speed to match him, gritting his teeth. He would tear out that devotion to the old man, that loyalty that Sam never quite understood. He wanted to own something that John could never have.

_Say my name..._

"Sam?" said the echo downstairs.

_Dean..._ he thought, tears spilling, I'm so sorry. And crumpling in defeat, he shut his eyes, as he shuddered against the thorns in that midnight garden.

_Dean, please.._.he thought, as the rose drank him in, not a drop wasted.

And that's when he smelled the kerosene.

_Ah crap, he's gonna burn this place down,_ he thought, his mind suddenly sharp again. As the rose dislodged itself from him with a smacking _pop!,_ the vine down his throat began to hum, growing hot all of a sudden. _The hell...?_

Tendrils clung to his face, pulling his teeth far apart so as to make biting down impossible as the vine undulated, growing taut as..._things_ inside it began to travel toward him, scuttling toward the refuge of his entrails. He tried to stop them, but they slid down his throat like buttered slugs.

Soon, his gut was full of hot, wriggling little creatures, flopping like live goldfish, and if he weren't so doped up he would have had a heart attack at being invaded so.

A wave of heat hit him, and he knew he didn't have a lot of time before the fire neared and the factory gave out beneath him. Summoning up all his willpower, he bit down, and was satisfied to feel his teeth go all the way thru the vine, the tree releasing him either from shock or from having got what it wanted out of him, either way he didn't care.

He ripped thorns off of his skin, not really feeling them yet, and yanked the thing out of his throat and damned thankful he was too numb to taste anything. In the distance, he could hear the Impala start up and drive away.

"Fire escape..." he said, trying to kick his brain back into gear, his legs shaking unsteadily. He found a rickety ladder on one side, and made for it blearily, staying low to the ground in case he should lose his balance. _Gotta get back in the hearse, get back to the hotel._

Once he was on the ground, feeling began to return, and the things in his stomach grew more restless until he thought he would be sick.

_They're growing,_ he thought, _Fuck that things was using me as a, an incubator._ And leaning over to wretch, he waited for something to come up. He panicked, wondering if maybe they had latched onto his guts from the inside. When nothing happened, he stuck two fingers inside his mouth, and forced it all up.

A black puddle of ichor pooled onto the ground, lit in relief by the mounting firelight. Turning to face him, a dozen pair of eyes blinked up at him, pruney-faced and with roots for hair and fingers.

His mouth widened in horror. _It laid eggs in me._

"Sssssssssam..." they all whispered, in a high, whistling chorus, beady black eyes following him in recognition.

Tears of shame ran down his face._ I've gone too far._ Not knowing what else to do, he plucked a cinderblock from the burning building, so hot that it blistered his hands, and not giving himself time to think about the magnitude of his sins, he crushed the little creatures into paste.

It took several tries, and by the time he had tossed the stone away his body was red raw from the fire's proximity. Some of them were still alive, but assuming they were left without food or a guardian, they would wither on their own time. This thought did little to comfort him.

Walking away, he covered his ears, their tiny wails of betrayal burning a hole in his brain, and let out a blood-curdling scream.

* * *

><p>"We're gaining on it," John said, clutching the steering wheel, "Get the twelve-gauge."<p>

Sure enough, the thorn tree was in sight, loping along the road with its branches weighting it forward.

"I'm gonna try and get beside it," John said, gunning the engine, "Get a shot at its legs, see if we can't slow it down."

Sam nodded and rolled down the window. The car sped so fast that he teared up in the wind, his hair flicking against his cheeks as he leaned out with the gun leveled on the car roof.

_Fuck what if I miss and hit Dean?_ he thought, his hands going thru the motions while his brain was on fire.

His training kicked in. He didn't even break a sweat when it came into view, this was business now. He zeroed in on his target, blocking out the sight of the older boy struggling against its grip and counted his breath the way he'd been taught.

_I'm gonna hit him._ Load the barrel. _His head's gonna spray all over that tree like a burst melon._ Squint thru the scope. _It'll be all my fault and then John really will kill me._

Line up the shot.

_Or we bring him back alive, and John gets a second chance at his ass._

Adjust for wind. The older boy's face flashed pale in the dark, and then winked out as the tree changed direction.

_Fucks sake Dean, tell me you didn't stray._

Breathe out.

The buckshot took off a big chunk of tree root, splintering all the way up one side as the creature stepped on empty air and barreled into the ditch, taking several smaller trees down with it.

John jammed on the brakes, swinging the car around a hundred and eighty degrees. "Is it down?" he shouted.

Sam was about to say yes, when a tendril suddenly shot out of the darkness, snatching his gun from his hands.

"Drive!" Sam shouted, as the thorn tree emerged from the shadows.

John drove in reverse, right arm clutching the seat as he looked behind him for oncoming traffic, while Sam reached down for the crate of explosives.

"We need to get close," Sam shouted into the wind, "I can't get an accurate hit from here."

The brakes squealed as John stopped suddenly, the back tires kicking out from under as he skidded a thick rubbery trail across the asphalt, whiskers of smoke curling from the grille. The thorn tree lashed out as he circled it, cutting donuts in the middle of the the road. Sam curled up in the passenger seat, struggling to coax a flame from the lighter.

And leaning out the window, he sucked in his breath and lobbed a Molotov cocktail, praying the wick would hold.

But the tree was a fast learner, and if Sam had moved left instead of right, he'd have gotten a face full of broken beer bottle.

"It's not stupid," Sam shouted, "It'll toss back anything we throw at it."

"Got any ideas?" John asked.

Sam's face twisted as he considered a last-ditch solution. "We wait."

* * *

><p>It had been a few days ago, when John had left the boys to search the lake for that damned revenant, and they lay naked by the water's edge, their backs browning in the summer sun. Dean had his arms crossed under his head, watching a beetle creep across Sam's drowsy face.<p>

Sam felt the boy's eyes on him. "Whatchu thinking?"

Dean smiled. "I take you to all the nice places." he said, the bug flashing blue and gold in the light.

Sam put his hand out to let it crawl up. "We should get back to work."

"Killjoy," he said, the warm lakewater licking at his calves, "But seriously, I oughta sneak us somewhere nice some day."

"With all of the six dollars you got in your wallet?" Sam said, the beetle a blur of azure in his palm.

"The neighborhood kids told me about a party spot not far from here, some half-built bridge to nowhere over the river," he said, laughing nervously, "Got a reputation with the locals after a coupla girls drove off it together."

"What's it called?" Sam asked, his hand raised until his wrist rested against his nose, the beetle's antennae sniffing him curiously.

Dean lay mesmorized by the pair, the insect eyeing the boy, two beautiful predators locked in a gentleman's staring contest.

He licked his lips, a sinking feeling in his gut. "They call it Lover's Leap."

* * *

><p>If Dean had been smart, he wouldn't have struggled against the thorn tree in the first place, saved his energy for a window of opportunity. Instead he'd thrashed all the way from the hotel room, until he was a scratched-up bloody mess, worn out and lungs on fire from shouting. By the time they made it to the bridge, he was too tired to do more than hang like a marionette with its strings cut.<p>

_Abducted by a Vagina Mono-Log_, he thought tartly,_ Damn this is just not my day._

"I don't mean to judge on Sam's taste in women," he croaked, swaying in its branches, "But you win the cookie for fucked-up crazy exes."

The river churned beneath them, scum floating on a current swollen with rain. Black ichor oozed from the stump where Sam had shot it, so whatever it had planned for Dean either had to happen now, or after it had had time to recover, preferably hidden with Dean preserved like a meat Twinkie. And if it managed to get down into the river, it'd be impossible to track.

He had to stall.

"So tiger-lily," he began, as it limped toward the end of the bridge with him in tow, "I've been meaning to ask, is it true what they say about chicks who all live in the same house for too long?"

The thorn tree stopped, and all the flowers rose up to look at him.

"That their monthlies start to line up?"

The flowers hissed in his face.

"Cuz damn I would be on the next train before that happened, if you're a crazy bitch _now_..."

A branch struck him in the face, and one of the flowers said something in a high trilling shriek.

"Sorry I didn't, didn't catch that," he said, blood dripping from his nose, "I don't speak Kotex."

"It wasn't talking to you."

Dean's head spun around, breath catching in his chest. Sam stood at the edge of the railing, a beer bottle in one hand and what looked like a drill in the other.

Dean fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, dismissed as second-rate goods. Grunting at the sharp pain in his everywhere, he pulled himself up on his elbows and watched at the thorn tree approached Sam.

A tendril flicked up in the air, pointing at the younger boy's face, though whether in accusation or longing he couldn't tell. The roses floated before him, the tree moving awkwardly on its one stump.

"Sssssssam..." they whispered plaintively.

Vines wrapped around his throat, gently, tenderly, not wanting to scare him off. The Prodigal had returned, and they were willing to forgive his past offences. He stood rigidly, his lips quivering slightly at its touch, but he couldn't run yet.

"Sssssssam..." one of the roses pressed itself against his mouth, craving the wet heat of his body, to fill him with its young, to give him hundreds of tiny Sam-flowers swelling in his belly, chewing their way out of his ribcage, devouring their father's tender flesh as they burst forth into the world.

Part of him wanted that agony. He wanted to look down and find his lap filled with black-eyed children and his own intestines. But he had changed since John had put him in the ground. He was like a kid done raiding a candy store, eating everything in sight until he was past tasting it, and now, eyeing the roses in distaste, he was full up and sick on cursed love.

"Ever wanted to die in a fire?" he asked.

And raising the nail gun, he fired a round of shots at its roots, pinning it to the concrete.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, jumping up in alarm as the tree lashed out in fury. He stole a glance over his shoulder, damn but it was a hell of a drop into the river.

Sam leapt backward, taking a second to light the molotov cocktail before dashing between the branches and securing it the immobilized trunk.

"It's blocking the way back!" Dean shouted, pointing towards the forest as Sam dropped the nail gun and came pelting his way.

"Sam-!" he said, before the boy's mouth came down on his own, arms wrapping around his waist as they both took a step, a second, and then...

...they walked on empty air, the tree bursting into flame as they disappeared over the edge.

* * *

><p>They crashed into the river, bubbles running up their faces as they clung to each other, and for a few blissful moments, the world went away. No sound, no light, just the end of long weary days of waiting, and the safety of home.<p>

When they finally came up for air, they swam to the other shore, the thorn tree screaming as it fought to free itself, flaming branches hanging over the edge, too far for the water to be of any use.

"We gotta move," Dean said, "John can't be far, we gotta ride out of town before someone sees the smoke and calls a Forest Ranger."

Sam's face twisted, the fire glowing in his eyes. "Let me kill him."

Dean's head snapped around. "What? No, you can't kill John, what're you talking about?"

"He buried me alive!" Sam said thru his teeth, still watching the thing burn, "How can I forget?"

"Look I'm not saying what he did was right, but, com'on, you m-made out alright..." Dean stammered, "Please, I just got you back, and I haven't slept since we lost you. If we wake up a day from now and you feel like gunning him down I won't stop you, but for fuck's sake baby boy can't it wait til tomorrow?"

Sam turned away from the conflagration, his back to it so that he was a shadow wreathed in flame. "What happened while I was gone?"

"What?" Dean said, his stomach knotting, "Nothing happened."

Sam pointed a finger at him. "Did he...has he had you?"

He waited a second too long. "No, nothing..."

"I have to know."

"...nothing happened."

Sam shoved him down into the mud, the stones biting into his hands as he struggled to aright himself.

Behind Sam's head, the inferno reached up to the stars and threatened to burn the whole world down. "He's had you."

"No," he said, reaching out to grasp Sam's wrists, "I'm telling you now-"

"Don't lie to me-" he said.

"You wanna know what happened?" he said, pulling the boy's face to his, "John showed me a body and says it's you-"

"And so you took up with him?" Sam snarled.

"My whole _life_ was cut in half," Dean said, shaking him, "Suddenly everything I did happened before you died, and everything I had left to do is after you died."

Sam's face was streaked with tears now. "He did this."

"I can't let you kill him."

Sam tried to slip away, but Dean held on tight, wrestling him to the ground.

"Please baby, just be good," he said, pressing his mouth to the younger boy, "Be good for me, you're not a killer."

Sam went slack in the older boy's embrace, clutching his hair as his mouth came down on his neck while the other hand slid down his hips, beneath the clinging wet bluejeans.

"The things I've done..." Sam said, "I was hardly gone a few days and-"

"It's okay." he said, peeling off his clothes, "It doesn't matter now."

"Let me do this," Sam pleaded, his head tipped back in desparate need, "Let me kill him."

"I won't let you go to hell for an old sinner who's gonna die bloody anyhow." he said, a hand running up the boy's waist, following the curve of his spine.

Sam reached down possessively, guiding the older boy. And raising his hips to meet him, he twisted his head into the riverbed, a whimper escaping him as his body was opened.

"He won't stop." Sam whispered, dread in his voice as the full weight of that truth hit him. The old hunter would bide his time for a second chance. "He's got you now."

He put a finger under the boy's chin. "He never had me."

Sam knew it couldn't be that simple. But he wanted to be good, he wanted it so badly, and no one else in this world would keep him on the straight and narrow.

"Promise me." Sam said, his cheeks flushed, and for an answer the boy kissed him, parting his mouth to swallow all his protests.

"I promise, just...stay," he said, "Don't go off without me. I'll die," he said, his voice cracking, "I'll die waiting for you to come back."

They kissed again, feverish, picking up speed and panting in time as the river washed away the remains of the smoldering wreck on the bridge. Sam clutched his back, gouging little half-moons into him as he gasped for air.

"I'll be good," Sam whispered into the boy's shoulder, his eyes closing on soft, slow tears, "I'll be good for you."

And his chest expanding, the older boy crashed into him, and the dark was filled with promises and the smell of burning roses.

* * *

><p><strong><em>The next morning...<em>**

Dean fastened his belt, watching Sam get dressed. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Been wondering..." he said, a joke playing at the corners of his mouth.

"What?" Sam asked suspiciously.

"Did you fuck that tree?"

Sam opened his mouth to retort, and started on four different answers before shutting it again.

"Ha!" Dean laughed, clapping his hands.

"Shut up." Sam said, his ears burning.

"That's mah boy!" Dean said, slapping him on the ass.

"It's not funny."

"You kidding, it's hilarious!" Dean said, walking toward the road, "That's gonna be my new motto from now on."

"Dean-"

"'Damn baby, I'm so horny I could fuck a tree'."

"DEAN-"

Dean wiped the tears from his eyes. "Okay okay sorry, I'm done."

"THANK YOU." Sam said, grabbing his boots off the ground.

They got about ten yards into the woods before Dean started snorting again. "You totally fucked that tree man." and was rewarded with a boot to the head.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>


	14. Library Sex

Dean stalked silently across the library floor, eyes on the back of Sam's head.

_"As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect."_

And then, with a piercing squeal, Sam leapt out of his chair as a beetle the size of a peanut fell between the pages of his book.

"Yeee!" he shrieked, trying to stand and instead tipping the chair back until he fell, head cracking against the library floor. He looked up into a pair of green eyes wrinkled from a lifetime of cheap laughs.

"You are such a girl." said Dean.

"Help me up," Sam said, taking Dean's hand, "Don't you have better things to do?"

"What, I'm working." said Dean, holding up a battered paperback.

"I mean at the sheriff's office," Sam said, "And since when do you read trashy romance novels?"

"This ain't trash, we had to read Jane Austin crap like this all the time in school."

"_Pride and Prejudice_ didn't have that much cleavage on the cover."

"Yeah well, aching stares across a crowded room don't getcha too far in the shower," he said, a little bitterly. John had kept a close watch on the boys, he'd figured them out a while back, and it had meant a month of going without for the two of them. "Besides, this is quality stuff. You know how hard it is to keep coming up with euphemisms for 'penis'?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "So the cops have anything on the wolf sightings?"

"Yeah, but not here," Dean said evasively, stuffing a slip of paper from his jacket into his pants pocket, "Hush, he's coming."

They took their chairs, each taking a volume from their tower of books as John returned from the periodicals. Sam was halfway thru a Latin translation, and set aside Kafka for another day.

"What're you reading about bugs for anyway?" Dean asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Part of my summer reading list, dude."

"That's how you're gonna spend your vacation? Bugs?"

"It's not about bugs," Sam said, watching as Dean carefully scooped his beetle into a jelly jar, "The idea is that Samsa's whole family changes once he's no longer human. _They're_ the ones going thru a metamorphosis."

"My book's cooler." he muttered, propping his feet up on the table and grabbing a pencil.

"You boys get any work done?" John asked, taking his chair.

"Here." said Sam, handing over his translation.

"What's it say?" Dean asked, not looking up as he drew something in the paperback.

"It's an incantation for summoning a werewolf during the day," Sam answered, "From 1115-1325, there was a Basque monastery known for housing lycanthrope victims. Studied them, took a hell of a lot of notes on possible cures. In 1326, when the monks refused to turn over their findings to the Church, the Inquisition put them on trial for heresy, and sacked their library."

"So where's the incantation?" John asked, flipping the sheet over.

"Oh it's pretty repetitive, _Excitaret mea anima, somnum canis, sepelire nocte in hiemem lignum, adducam luna adoculus meus, _and then you do this thing with a chicken."

Dean looked up, scandalized. "You _memorized_ that?"

"...yeah."

Dean looked back at his book, smiling in spite of himself. "You're weird."

A pair of high heels clicked toward them, stopping directly behind Dean's head. "And what do you think you're doing to that library book?"

He looked up, smiling as his eyes took their time getting past the buttons on her shirt. "Underlining the fuck parts."

She blushed. "Well you need to erase it."

"What, this is community service," he said, pushing his tongue against the back of his teeth, "I'm servicing the community."

John snorted into his newspaper. She was only an intern, and her ensemble, the tailored jacket, floor-length skirt, sensible reading glasses on a chain, didn't fool any of them. Too young to scare Dean, not old enough to ignore the invitation in his voice. "Take your feet off my table." she said finally, before turning back toward the main desk.

"I love it when chicks dress all conservative," Dean said, as she whipped out of sight, "She's gotta have some _crazy_ underwear underneath it all."

"Dean, hand me the dictionary." Sam asked icily.

"Bet she's into leopard print."

"THE DICTIONARY PLEASE?"

"Remember that librarian in Mason City? I got to her house and BANG, lion tamer's outfit!"

Sam snatched the romance novel from his unyeilding hands. "If you don't shut up and let the rest of us work-"

"Hey give it back!"

"Settle down," John said absently, head resting against one hand while he turned the page of a local police report, "Damn but I can't find anything in these."

Sam and Dean exchanged looks, Sam knitting his eyebrows, _You gonna tell him what you found out?_

But Dean shook his head. Sam didn't push, and went back to translating.

It had been a frustrating month for the two. John was using their time off from school for extra training and research, and while Sam was glad to be trusted with so much work, he'd barely been touched that entire time. The boys were nickel and dimed for the least bit of love.

* * *

><p>Summer was coyote season, and the local rangers encouraged hunters to take out as many as they had time for.<p>

"Sam, spot for Dean," said John, checking their gear, "The ridge is about five hundred yards from the treeline, once the sun sets the deer'll come out..."

"...and the coyotes will follow." Dean finished, squinting against the sky, "How many shots I get? Six? Five?"

John smiled, holding up a single .223 round. "You think you need so many?"

"Aw come on, from this far up?" Dean complained, "It's gonna get _dark_ soon."

"One shot, one kill," John insisted, loading the rifle and handing it over, "Sam, grab the scope from the trunk."

The boys settled belly-down on the ground next to each other, pant legs knocking against each other as one fiddled with binoculars and the other lined up the rifle.

"Wind's coming east at half value." Sam said, peering into the distance.

"East?"

"Yeah, look at how the trees are bending." he said, and put the binoculars to Dean's eyes, still holding onto them. The older boy reached up, gently taking his wrist to steady him. It was brief, only a few seconds, but Sam's heart quickened nonetheless.

"Thanks." Dean said, taking his hand away, "Here, check the rifle for me will ya?"

Sam took it, setting it up to look thru the day scope. "This thing's so loud," he said, "You take your shot, we're gonna scare off everything in a mile radius."

"Yeah you're right actually," Dean said, leaning back to root in his backpack, "Here, put this on."

Sam took the silencer from him, their fingers brushing, and screwed it onto the barrel. "Okay, all set."

Dean took the rifle back, and the next hour was silent save for the wind tangling the hair on their heads. And all that time, Dean contented himself with the smell of Sam's sweat on the rifle, leaning his cheek against the wood as if to fall asleep.

"I don't see any deer," Sam whispered after a while, once the sun had gone down, "You'll think we'll get a coyote today?"

Dean sighed. "They gotta get hungry eventually."

* * *

><p>Dean looked up at the library clock. All the university kids had lit out, they had the place to themselves save for Her Highness at the front desk.<p>

John was buried in whatever he was reading, seated between him and Sam so that the younger boy was a good ten feet away. Dean's eyes traced the bones on Sam's wrist, the little blue veins between his knuckles as he tapped a pencil thoughtfully against his lips.

Carefully, Dean upended the jelly jar, letting the beetle escape. It skittered across the table, making straight for the younger boy.

Sam didn't look up. Moving casually, as if they were passing notes in class, he laid his hand out flat and let it climb up.

Dean pretended to be checking phone records, a security mirror reflecting the beetle as it hesitantly made it's way up Sam's long, brown arm, creeping under his shirtsleeve and disappearing into the warm shadows.

Sam closed his eyes briefly, little whispery feet crawling over his body in search of sanctuary, and he bit his lip as it traveled down his belly and over his ribcage, imagining a different visitor entirely.

Dean watched him, hands breaking into a sweat. He had mapped out the boy's body a long time ago, he knew it blind, could see it in the dark when everyone else was asleep and he had to use his hand to bite off another gray moment of relief just to fall asleep. The ladies could keep their damned lion tamer's outfits, imagining the little insect's scouting expedition was better than any striptease.

Sam raked a hand thru his hair, swiveling his shoulder to let the beetle climb his throat and disappear between his fingers, letting it seesaw from one knuckle to the next like a magician's coin. But the insect was afraid of the light, and Sam pulled back his collar, exposing several inches of tawny shoulder, to let it escape back inside.

Dean had never envied another living creature so much in his life. He thought he could get by without this, but he knew now, this wasn't something he'd given up. He'd been robbed.

_Fuck this, _Dean thought,_ I ain't waiting. _And shoving the phone records back in their folder, he made a beeline for the main desk.

"Hey darlin'," he said, smirking when the intern dropped her tea mug in surprise, "I need to make a call."

"Um, sure, it's in the..." she trailed off, pointing to the office.

"You better come with me," he said, leaning in close, "I always get confused with those rotary phones."

She backed away from him a little, but the desk was confining and he blocked the only way out.

"I always loved playing with those things when I was a kid," he said, smiling, "Stick my finger in the zero and just kept dialing it over and over and over again."

She blushed, his hand following the line of her hip behind the desk.

"What's wrong," he said, running his finger along her skirt zipper, "You think it won't fit?"

Her lips parted, struggling to remember what they'd taught her in sexual harassment class, about acting as a role model in her supervisory position and encouraging workplace respect and avoiding legal retaliation, and it all withered and died in the second it took him to hook a finger beneath her cotton undies.

"Get the blinds." she whispered, pushing him into the office and bolting the door behind them.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, Sam watched the beetle in its jar, his jaw set as he tried not to hear the librarian, that <em>too<em> quiet quiet that meant someone was cramming a tailored jacket in their mouth.

She came out a few minutes later (_Damn but Dean worked fast_), flushed and tucking a stray lock behind her ear as she trotted up to their table.

"John Winchester?" she asked.

"Hmm?" he replied.

"You got a call," she said, holding out a slip of paper, "From the sheriff's department."

John snatched it from her fingers, eyes speeding across and a slow smile spreading across his face. "Perfect."

"The library will be closing soon," she said primly, and Sam noticed her skirt was on backwards, "You'll need to put these reference books back where you found them."

"Sure, just as soon as I use your phone."

"I'm sorry," she said, clasping her hands, a tell for sure, "Ours is broken. But the pay phone is across the street."

John chewed on the inside of his cheek, considering. "Sam, clean up the books."

"Yes sir."

John grabbed his jacket, fishing for change as he made his way to the exit. The intern followed, grabbing her purse from the desk as if to step outside for a cigarette. But when she turned her back, she looked at Dean, standing in the office doorway, and smiled knowingly.

And waiting for John to leave, she counted to ten, walked out, and locked the door behind her.

Sam looked over, confused. "Dean?"

Dean wiped the corners of his mouth, brushing his hand, and the taste of her, away on his bluejeans.

"Where'd she go?" Sam asked.

"She's agreed to be a lookout." he said, walking purposefully toward the younger boy.

"What?" he said, "What for? Dean, ya gotta help me with these books."

Something twisted in Dean's face, and setting his boot against the edge of the table, he gave it a nasty shove, books flying across the room.

"Dean-" Sam started, when the older boy grabbed him by the waist, lifting him out of his chair and smashing them together.

"Fuck. The books." he said, and kissed him so hard their teeth scraped, a copper tang as he bit the boy's lip.

Sam wound his arms around his neck, hands diving inside of Dean's shirt to rake furrows between his shoulder blades. "Nnnn..." he said, sucking greedily at his mouth, frenzied after so much time apart.

"How much time do we have?" he whispered, whipping off his shirt one-handed.

"Enough." Dean said, undoing his belt.

"You need help?" he asked, reaching inside the zipper.

"Uh-uh, I ain't wasting time on your smart mouth." he said, kissing him again, his cock pressing against the boy in a practiced move that a month of jerking off in the shower hadn't made up for.

"What should I-?"

"Boots, socks. All of it."

Sam tossed off his clothes, and looked around for a possible place to lay down. "I'd say we use the table, but..."

But Dean had been planning this. He lifted the boy easily, placing him against Non-Fiction F-G. "Put your feet up."

He planted his heels against the steel, way up on the third shelf until his knees were level with his chest. "We're gonna knock this thing down."

Dean smiled, spitting into his hand. "Good thing the place is already a mess then."

Sam's mouth watered as the boy drove into him. "Fuck," he hissed, muscles straining as he fought to stay in place, "I've missed you so much."

"I know, I wish..." _I wish things were different._

"Don't go so slow," he said, feline eyes daring him to go rough, "You're not gonna break me."

"I don't wanna knock you over."

Sam looked up, and reached to grab onto the shelf on either side of his head. "Here, move to the left a little."

"Like this?"

"Yeah," Sam said, letting out a shuddering breath as they fit together a little more easily, "Aaaah, go ahead."

They took up a punishing pace, the books behind Sam's hips rattling in their shelves as they inched further and further over the edge, spilling onto the floor. A ribbon of sweat rolled down Sam's bare chest, his cheeks a high color as he struggled to hold himself up.

"Come on, harder." Sam said thru his teeth, his arms taut and threatening to give out.

"I'll knock this thing down."

"Dean _please_..."

They kissed, steel shelves moaning as they shivered and warped under so much weight, and finally the whole thing collapsed in a flood of moldy hardbacks, books splayed open like ballerinas as the two boys slipped off.

"Don't stop..." Sam pleaded.

They latched onto each other, narrow hips slapping against the floor as the older boy took him, his voice getting louder as it rose in pitch, so much so that Dean had to cover his mouth, giving him a warning look.

"Keep it down." he said.

Sam looked up at him, eyes bright with longing. They were both very close, and Dean didn't want to ruin it by getting caught.

But he couldn't deny himself that mouth, not when he might have to go without for another month, or longer he feared. And kissing the boy, they rocked against each other, breathing insistent, speeding up until suddenly the seconds stretched, their kiss bittersweet at the realization that it was over much too quickly.

They had become such beggars for love.

* * *

><p>John came back later, finding the intern at her desk and all but a few books back in place. "You boys hungry?"<p>

Dean snatched up the beetle in the jar. "Frickin' starving."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>


	15. The Wolf and the Huntsman

"The ranger's last report put our wolf north of here," John said, shotgun balanced over one shoulder as he surveyed the other hunters, "Four hikers dead so far, all single men taking the trail during the full moon."

"Where'd our boy hide in the meantime?" one of the men asked, picking his teeth with a Swiss Army knife.

"Forest fire took out part of the campground last year, there's probably a cabin that'd serve, now that the road's been roped off." John said, "Split up into pairs, choose a trail in that direction, and we'll meet back at cook camp in the morning."

Dean looked off into the distance, at a penstroke of campfire smoke curling into the clouds, and wondered how Sam was holding up.

* * *

><p>"Stay here," John had said, as Sam stared at the beer bottle unopened between his knees, "You'll be fenced in with enough wire traps to snare Godzilla, sleep with your gun and you'll do alright."<p>

Sam nodded, not wanting to argue in front of the older men, a band of leathery faces with bad gums and no patience for lightweights.

John turned away to pack his provisions, and Sam twisted at his beer cap, hair hanging in his eyes as he struggled to open it without a church key, the way the other men did.

"Need help?" Dean asked.

"I got it," Sam snapped, "John'll need help packing."

Dean set even this little jab to memory. Before, he'd never gone into a job with anything to lose, but now, after that awful week where he thought Sam had died, every moment spent alone with the kid had the potential to haunt him, and he wanted a supply of even throwaway moments like this.

"Here," Dean said, pulling the boy up level with him, "Let me show you a trick."

His fingers were cold on Sam's bare arms, he was so nervous about this hunt. Sam looked up, a question in his eyes as Dean took off his ring.

"I use it when I need to open something," Dean said, slipping it onto the boy's finger, "That way you don't tear up your hand."

With his back to the others, Dean's voice was flat, practical, but his eyes were pleading, _Wait for me._

"Keep it til I get back." he said, letting go of his hand.

Sam fingered it with his thumb, the metal still warm from Dean's skin. "Be careful."

* * *

><p>John had found four men to join them in the werewolf hunt. They were fleabitten old war vets who might have showered four times in the last year, and Dean suspected they'd need their socks cut off of their feet should they ever deign to remove their boots, but they'd worked together a long time, and moved as a single unit.<p>

It wasn't hunting with them that bothered Dean though. It was the countless hours spent waiting for moonrise, sharing anecdotes from the tours they'd fought in to keep their spirits up, talking over his head like Dean was a toddler with a pop gun. And when the whiskey came out...

"...she tried sticking a finger up my ass," said Sgt. John Deere Cap, taking another pull from his flask, "I tell ya, the whores in North Carolina? Must be somethin' in the water."

Dean smiled at the ground, keeping his mouth shut. He didn't want to let on that he'd never had to pay for sex, it was bad enough that he was only there on John's word.

"What about you John?" the sergeant asked, "We're pretty close to the old base, you ever hear back from Jen?"

Dean looked up at this. "Who's Jen?"

All the men smiled in collective memory. "Jailbait Jen," John explained, "She was, what, sixteen? Used to sneak into the base at night."

"Could've been arrested," said Lt. Malt Liquor, "But damn she was worth the trouble. Hellcat in bed."

"Pfft, bed," the sergeant said dismissively, "I had to take her in the kitchen. Always made me put a damn towel down beforehand."

"And if she really liked you," said the lieutenant, "She'd leave her panties in your back pocket. So's you can smell her when you're jacking off during the week."

Dean blinked. Why did this woman sound familiar?

"But nobody got as many visits as John," said the lieutenant, "Especially after the pig fight."

"What pig fight?" Dean asked.

"Things got slow on base," John said, "The fellas dug a pit in the ground with a pig at the bottom, and we'd take turns trying to wrestle it to the ground."

"And whoever beat the pig," the sergeant said with a leer, "Got the girl."

The men all laughed, and Dean covered his cringe with another sip of beer.

"And nobody won more often than John," the sergeant said, laughing, "Jen'd sneak into his room and he'd be marching the next day at five o'clock on no sleep."

"This chick, she have a...birthmark down her neck?" Dean asked, pressing a finger against his collarbone.

They all looked round at him. "Yeah." said John, "Why?"

Dean smiled, embarrassed but happy to be included in the discussion finally. "She was my math teacher."

Their eyes widened, and then they all broke out into drunken grins.

"Where?" John asked.

"Her desk," Dean said, squirming under their gaze, "She was...she was a live wire alright."

In truth, Jen Davenport had been one of his creepier encounters. There was nothing fun or sweet about the sex, and he'd been glad to get it over with, but the men wanted details.

"She liked dirty talk, did ya call her names?" one asked.

"I-"

"Didja slap her tits?"

"Well, no-"

"Did she beg for it?"

Dean opened his mouth to say no, but stopped. John must have sensed his discomfort, because he stood up, silencing their inquiries. "We should sleep now, burn off the booze," he said, "We'll get started after sunset."

The men sniffed, but said nothing. They could take a hint, and Dean shot John a grateful look.

He walked to his bedroll, his eyes following that distant home fire like a compass needle. He hadn't thought about his math teacher in a long time, hadn't thought about any of his past women lately. Folding his arms across his chest, he looked down at the pale shadow on his right hand where the ring should be, and felt dirty for even bringing her up to the others.

He closed his eyes, falling asleep to the smell of burning leaves.

* * *

><p><em>"Come on soldier boy..."<em>

__Papers fluttered to the floor as her desk knocked against the wall.__

_"Pleeeeease..." she said, high heels digging into the small of his back, "Give it to me..."_

* * *

><p>His dream faded, one sunset for another, and he breathed in the smell of pinestraw and old boots. But the knocking of the desk persisted, and he looked around to see if it had followed him like a bad acid trip.<p>

But no, this sound echoed, there in the trees, and he crept away without waking the others to investigate.

John was dark against the gloom, shoulders straining against black fatigues as he lifted the axe for another swing. A few feet away, a small pyramid of firewood leaned against a tree.

"Oh good, you're up," John said, sparing him a glance before bringing the axe down on the stump, burying it halfway thru, "Take a turn, will ya, I need a drink."

Dean nodded, keeping his eyes on the axe, the dream still teasing at the edge of his memory. He'd been with some freaky chicks before, but Jailbait Jen had left a nasty taste in his mouth afterwards.

_"Put these on." she said, fishing a set of dog tags out of her purse, a trophy from an ex-flame._

_"These are real?"_

_"The Marines put on a contest once when I was a kid," she said, pulling him close, "I was promised to whoever fought best."_

__"You like soldiers?" he asked, pulling them over his head.__

_She smiled, unbuttoning his shirt. "I like winners."_

"So what do ya think of my friends?" John asked, twisting the cap off a beer.

"Sounds like they'd had a hard life," Dean said carefully, struggling to remove the axe from where John had left it, "But they'll be good in a fight."

"Don't," John said, foam pouring over the lip onto his fingers, "They're old drunks, they'll last one round and puke up their breakfast."

"Then why'd you invite them?"

"There's too much land to cover," John said, turning to face the hills, "And a forest fire won't stop the really ambitious hikers. The more eyes we've got in the field, the less likely someone will get killed tonight."

The axe was really wedged in the stump, and Dean strained against it.

__"Pleeeeease..." she whined, her cunt slick and swollen from watching him all day in class, waiting for winter exams to finish so she could get him alone.__

"And you're gonna trust them to do their job should the wolf show up on their watch?" Dean asked.

"No," John said, turning to eye him, "I trust you."

Dean stopped pulling against the axe, but didn't look up.

_ "Hurry up ya fucking hillbilly," she said, cheek pressed against the desk, "And give it to me." _

"You know where it's hiding out." Dean said.

"Wasn't hard." John said, with the ease of a man who could track a mouse across a gravel path. Even on so little sleep, he was alert and relaxed, as if the wolf were a weed that needed pulling.

It had been a long time since they'd been alone together, and even twenty feet apart Dean felt a flush creep up his face.

__"Come on jarhead," she said, his hand twined in her hair while the other pinned her wrists against a stack of test papers, "You gonna go easy on a cheap bitch like me?"__

"So why me?" Dean asked.

"For one, you're the best shot in the group. The rest of us would have to get up real close to bring it down, and that's too risky," John said, taking a swig of beer, "Not when there's a chance of infection."

Dean tried the axe again, pressing his boot against the stump, his hands slick with sweat on the handle.

_"Come on give it to me." she said, her hips swiveling anxiously as his cock stood between her thighs. _

"For another," John said, standing up, "I need to see that you can operate alone."

_"Oh fucking hurry it up you white trash piece of meat..." she said, the desk knocking against the wall as he slammed into her, her teeth set as she struggled not to cry out the name on the tags he was wearing._

"Lycanthrope's a pretty big job," Dean said, sweat beading on his forehead, "What if I screw it up?"

_The tags swung back and forth on the chain around his neck, clinking together, the name on it familiar, the man's face swimming before him, and he wondered if he would beg like this under the old soldier's hands._

John's hand reached around from behind, clasping over the boy's grip on the handle. "You won't."

_ _"Cut me in half..."__

The axe came free.

They stood together like that for a few seconds, and Jen's dog tags, the ones bearing John's name, echoed in his head, their ghost clinking against his chest.

"And when you shoot that thing," John said, his hand trailing up Dean's arm, "I want you to bring me it's head."

Dean didn't let go of the axe, though his hands trembled in the summer heat.

"I'll want to mount it."

* * *

><p>Sam trudged along the trail, shirt tied around his waist, a dead doe slung across his shoulders as he spied the cook fire thru the branches. It was way too much meat for him to eat on his own, but once he had the carcass on a spit, he could roast the fat off of it until the others returned.<p>

Last night had been the worst. Coyotes howled to each other in the distance, and with no booze to help him to sleep, he'd undressed on top of his bedroll and stared into the trees, a half dozen sets of glowing eyes staring hungrily at his pink, naked body.

It was stupid, tempting predators like that, but he had a gun nearby if things got out of hand. So he'd lain down, one arm tucked beneath his head, a chorus of insects filling the dark.

When the coyotes didn't approach, he let his hand travel down.

They were too scared to come near the fire, but they watched him silently, aching to snap the boy's bones between their teeth as sparks flew up into the night. He'd only ever seen sketches of a lycanthrope, rabid half-men grinning in the moonlight while their victim looked on in horror, their ribcage opened, their heart torn out. The thought had made his blood burn.

But his release had been short and sharp, and the hard metal of the ring against his cock caused him to shiver in the cool night air, lonely and not nearly tired enough.

He leaned his shotgun against a tree and stared at his supper, a pheasant he'd shot earlier now blackened in the flames. He would need more wood soon, and the pine in this part of the park gave off so much smoke that his lungs felt hairy.

"This sucks."

A twig snapped, high above his head. He looked up, but his night vision was gone from looking into the fire, and the night looked like a giant bruise.

His gun wasn't far, but he was hesitant to go for it. Coyotes didn't climb trees, and a lycanthrope wouldn't stalk like this, so what...?

"Sam?"

He sucked in his breath. "Dean?"

The boy lept out of the tree. "Are you alone?"

"Yeah," he said, his brows knitting, "Where are the others?"

Dean stared at him, at the young huntsman with his kill slung across his bare shoulders and flames licking at his ankles like bloodhounds, his ring winking in the light. It made his shame all the worse.

"I screwed up."

"What?"

"I..." he said, stepping into the light.

"Holy shit." Sam said, dropping the doe onto the ground and running toward him. Half of Dean's shirt was torn away, revealing long gashes down one arm. They weren't serious, but they made for a hell of a show.

"John knew where the wolf was sleeping," Dean said, as Sam ran to get a med kit, "He sent me out with sniper rifle and a bullet."

"He only gave you _one_?" Sam asked incredulously, snapping the seal off a bottle of iodine.

"He said I only needed one." Dean whispered, his face in his hands.

"So you missed?"

"That's the thing. I didn't," Dean said, laughing bitterly, "I got it in one, and from _way_ the hell away."

Sam waited to hear what came next, tearing up an old blanket to soak up the blood. Had he lost so much blood and still run all the way here?

"So I went down the ridge to bring back...the body, and when I got there..." he choked, "It was too late, some girl had been on the trail and he must've sniffed her out and...she was still breathing, if I'd gotten him ten minutes sooner..."

Sam examined the blood again. Not all of it was Dean's.

"I couldn't leave her there," he said, a tear rolling down his cheek, "I had to bury her."

"It's okay," Sam said, relieved that the cut wasn't so deep, "How did you get the injury?"

Dean swallowed. "The wolf wasn't dead."

"But you shot it-"

"I stunned it. I got back from burying the hiker and it jumped me when I was too tired to see it coming."

Sam eyed him. "It clawed you."

Dean looked up, terrified. "Does that mean it got me?"

They stared at each, the question lingering in the dark. They'd spent the last week researching a hundred ways to track and kill a lycanthrope, but hadn't read a single line on what an infection looked like beyond "shoot it just to be sure."

"I...I don't think so." Sam said finally.

"You don't _think_?" Dean said, his voice pitched high in panic, "You've gotta know!"

"I think it has to bite you," he said uncertainly, "Or maybe you have to drink it's blood...no that's a Strigoi-"

Dean grabbed his shoulders and began to shake him. "Which is it?"

"I don't know!"

"We need to find John," Dean said desparately, "He'll know what to do."

Sam went cold. Dean had run off half-cocked to earn the old man's respect, and it had blown up in his face. They could do this on their own. "Wait til morning."

"Why?"

Sam licked his lips. "Remember that ritual I told you about? The one where you can summon a lycanthrope during the day?"

"What, you have it?"

"No," Sam said smiling, "I memorized it."

"So we mouth off some Latin, do a little dance-"

"And if you've changed, we'll know then."

"So...yeah, morning," Dean said, glad to have a plan, and suddenly noticed every ache in his body from sprinting several miles, "But afterwards we need to go back to the others and tell them."

"You think they'll waste time asking questions?" Sam asked, pointing at the wound, "The minute they see _that_, they're gonna assume-"

"They won't...they wouldn't..." he said, now questioning just what those men wouldn't do for the sake of the greater good. John might argue in his favor, but they were outnumbered, and he didn't want to risk Sam in a gun fight.

Sam let reality sink in as he taped off the bandages. "It's good to see you." he said quietly.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, next time I'll show up with my guts in my hands, we can decorate the Christmas tree."

"No really, it's been pretty boring down here." he said, his hand still on Dean's arm.

"Cry me a fucking river," Dean said bitterly, "I just spent the last day with a bunch of Hee-Haw rejects who microwave their Slim Jims cuz they think the grease is lucky."

Sam smiled, secretly happy that they'd been equally miserable without each other on this hunt.

"AND I'm out a shirt."

"It was an ugly shirt."

"It's not funny!" Dean said, turning away, his guilty conscience returning, "I can't believe I went out there on my own..."

The blood thrummed in Sam's ears, and he reached down to hold his face.

"No," he said, trying to back away.

"What's wrong?"

"You...you should stay away."

"Dean-" he said, leaning in to kiss him.

"What if I change?" he said, his eyes swimming.

"You won't hurt me."

"No, really," he said, shuddering as a hand ran gently down his neck but managing to talk sense, "You should tie me up for now. If anything happened..."

Sam searched him, his jaw working, and finally let his hands drop. "Crap."

"I'm not tryin' to be difficult here."

"No, you're right, lemme just...lemme see what we've got in the supply bin." Sam said flatly.

Dean cleared his throat, trying to ignore the raging hard-on in his jeans. "We got rope?"

"No, but they left a length of chain, hold on."

And improvising with a pair of gaskets from jars of summer peaches, Dean was trussed up to a nearby oak, enough slack to lie down but not enough to actually get across the fire.

"Can you sleep like that?" Sam asked.

Dean rattled his chains. "I'm gonna have to."

"When's the last time you ate anything?"

When it took Dean more than five seconds to count how long ago his last meal had been, Sam turned to take the pheasant off the spit. Dean watched as the younger boy tended to the fire, cutting under the wings with a boning knife.

"I just want this job to be over," Dean said, staring at the ground, "I hate this place."

Sam walked over to him, a piece of tinfoil filled with steaming meat.

"I still can't believe I didn't see that hiker coming," he said to himself, as if Sam could give him some absolution, "She would have been about your age."

Food was put in his hands, but he wouldn't take it, so Sam tore off a strip and kept it in his hand to cool.

"I couldn't dig down far enough, everything's hardscrabble, so I had to dig like a lot of little holes and just..." he said, his voice shaking.

He stared at the bird in his lap.

"Fuck I had to cut her up into little pieces." he said, his eyes stinging.

"You need to eat." Sam said, his hand close to the boy's mouth.

The meat was black on the outside and raw in the center, a thin line of blood dripping down Sam's hand as Dean looked down on it. He opened his mouth to take it, closing his eyes and smelling the boy's hand.

Up until now, he'd never taken the kid truly seriously. He'd be like John some day, maybe even worse, but he was so young.

But youth is a problem that gets better with time.

Sam bit his lip. He'd been cool so long as he'd kept himself busy taking care of the wounds, but now, with the boy eating out of his palm, teeth scraping the ring he'd been given, he knew he wouldn't last til morning. The older boy probably hadn't had the opportunity to get alone for five minutes, not with all those men in camp, it would be an easy conquest.

"Dean..." he said, he knew he should be worrying about the ritual, but all he could think about was the changes they'd need in the worst case scenario. If Dean was infected, they'd be on their own. They'd have to live off the grid, away from all the others, and Sam would spend the rest of his life making sure the world left them alone.

One boy would get his monster, the other would get his huntsman.

Dean kept the boy's hand close to his mouth, feeling the ring on it, and then remember himself and pushed him gently away. "You oughta be on the other side of the fire tonight."

"No," he said, running a hand down his chest, grabbing onto the tattered shirt, "I'm staying with you."

"You really-"

He tore the shirt off, dropping the remnants onto the hardscrabble. "Let me do this." he breathed into his neck.

The rational part of Sam's brain knew Dean was still human, but his mouth was curious as he licked the salt away. Would his teeth lengthen under his kiss? The skin grow hot under his hands? His voice warp into a vulpine bark as they rutted in the firelight? Of all the creatures he'd fucked so far, none of them had given him the courtesy of answering such questions, and this was his one opportunity to love something that could be made happy.

Dean's fear for their safety lost out to other cravings, and he swayed on his feet, worn out by dread and blood loss, and let his belt be undone.

"Shouldn't we at least wait until tomorrow?" he said weakly, but slender hands undid his clothes, not bothering to listen as he knelt on the earth.

He should be feeling really bad about this, I mean this was dangerous, but fingers trailed up his chest to rest against his heart, and the little ring put him at ease. If he was safe anywhere, it was here.

"Aaaah..." he said, gritting his teeth as a sweet, warm mouth took him in. They'd never done it like this before, but the boy took him in earnest, filling his mouth to study every inch of him, wondering if he had tasted any different before the attack.

He went slow, running his tongue along the edge, thrilling at the noises it elicited. With his hands on the older boy's waist, he scratched pink furrows along his sides, the chains clattering as they strained against the oak tree.

"Fuck..." he said, burying his hand in the boy's hair, his knees shaking, "That's enough, lemme have a turn."

But he wouldn't hear of it, and he ran his hands over his bluejeans, grabbing his ass to bring him closer, swallowing him so his cock hit the roof of his mouth. His jaw was already aching, but he ignored it and pressed on, stopping only to slick his lips, eager for every little noise the boy made.

If he hadn't been so close to the ground, he might not have seen the yellow eyes staring back at him thru the woods.

"Dean," he said carefully, not wanting to arouse his suspicion, "Take me to the bed."

He didn't need to be asked twice. They lay down on the sleeping bag, where Sam lightly slipped his hands under the pillow, where he kept his 9mm. Dean was so feverish with desire that he didn't notice anything amiss, and quickly undressed them both, his hands on the younger boy's legs.

"No," said Sam, bringing Dean's face up to his, "I don't need your mouth. I need you."

They kissed, Dean's mouth tasting burnt and bloody from the dead animal Sam had fed him, and he opened his mouth to get at him some more, winding his arms around his neck, joyous to find a predator that could love him.

"Here let me cover you." Sam said, pulling a blanket over them, until only they faces shone against the fire.

"I haven't stopped thinking about you since I left," he said, kissing him, wishing he could kiss away the last twenty-four hours, the dirty memories, the lingering feel of John's hand on his, the blood of that girl he buried, "Fuck, they're gonna come looking for us sooner or later, we can't run for long."

The pack crept in slowly, sniffing the dead doe that Sam had dropped earlier. The gun was a hard comfort against his head, his back arching as the boy entered him.

He smiled, sweaty hips grinding into him, his body filled with a dark heat, and he wondered what a month of this would be like, twenty-eight days out of thirty filled with simple moments of love, and the final two nights spent sitting across from a cage, watching an animal crash against the bars. _His_ animal. To cherish and protect for as long as they both shall live.

"We'll run as long as we have to." he said, watching the coyotes approach from the corner of his eye. And pushing Dean's face into his neck, he removed the gun from under him.

He pointed the barrel at them, daring them to come any closer as he held onto the other boy protectively, his hair falling in his eyes as their ardor quickened.

The coyotes eyed the weapon warily, not sure whether to be more afraid of it or it's owner, this savage thing whose aim did not waver even in a state of love. And so dragging the deer into the forest, ducking their heads in obeisance, they departed leaving only a bloody stain on the earth.

"They won't find us."

One by one, the pack faded into the gloom, but the gun stayed pointing at the night, his fingers crushing it as he closed his eyes in climax.

"I won't let them."

* * *

><p>tbc<p> 


	16. Chained

**Aaaand another straight-up smut chapter, dashed off during a break, sorry it's short. More to come.**

* * *

><p>Dean awoke to a warm rain. The canopy was thick enough in this part of the forest that it was no more than a mist on his face, but he wiped his mouth, his hand coming away with more grit than water, and wished for a razor.<p>

Last he could recall, he'd fallen asleep on top of Sam, offering bonus sexual favors like a gentleman right before blacking out with his cock buried in the kid like a hibernating weasel. But all the aches and pains of last night's botched hunt seemed mended, dispatched by dreamless sleep and the cool steel of Sam's 9mm resting against his heart.

"You awake?" Sam asked, knuckling the sleep from his eyes.

"I need to be?"

"Help me pack, John and the others'll be looking for you," he said, pushing aside the blanket and noting the manacles on Dean's wrists, "Here, I got some bolt-cutters to clip those."

"It's barely daylight," Dean said, grabbing the boy's waist and slinging him back on top, "Those old squirrels won't be up for hours at least."

"We need to move," he said, his voice small as hands ran down his spine toward his bare ass, "Come on, we don't have time."

"Mm-hmm..." he said, pressing hopefully against the kid's belly.

But Sam had watched those men, the way they chased their coffee with white crosses like after-dinner mints. Werewolves were rare, and they wouldn't waste time on sleep if they could check that one off their Creature Bingo card.

"Later," Sam said, reluctantly, wondering when they'd next get a chance alone, "We only need the bedrolls, guns, and enough water to get us thru to tomorrow."

"What about materials for the lycanthrope ritual?" Dean asked, the chains suddenly heavy again.

"Oh we have most everything in my pack," Sam said, "All I need's a chicken to sacrifice."

"A chicken?"

"Yeah, but it's okay, the ranchers at the end of the trail got a henhouse, if you wanna climb in, I can block the entrance and grab whichever one makes a run for it."

"So you'd be cock-blocking?"

"No it'd be a hen but-" Sam stopped, screwing up his face, "Shut up and get out of bed already."

Dean smiled. "Does the ritual need to be on a tile floor too?"

"No-"

"Cuz then you could re-grout it and you'd only be a caulk-blocker."

Sam hitched on his bluejeans, his shoulders hunched.

"Ah come on, I'm only teasing," Dean said, tossing the blanket aside and standing, "Look, I'm up, I'm up."

Satisfied that there would be no more delays, Sam bent over to fold the bedroll, but hesitated.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked.

"Nothing," Sam replied, blinking at the dried stain they'd left from last night, a snow angel of spunk and sweat that wouldn't have showed on a white hotel sheet, "This thing's dirty is all."

He flipped it over, and blushed so hard that even with his back to Dean he couldn't hide his embarrassment.

"What now?" Dean asked, walking up to see.

The bedroll was soaked all the way thru to the other side.

Dean laughed at the look on Sam's face. "Damn I am GOOD."

"You are so gross." Sam said, his cheeks now beet red.

"What country do you think it looks like?"

"What are you, in second grade?" Sam said hotly, casting about for a trash bag to stuff it in so it didn't stink up his clothes.

"I think it looks more like Australia-"

"DEAN."

Hands grabbed his hips from behind. "What's the problem baby boy?"

Sam opened his mouth, but the rain came down harder, slicking his bare chest. He'd awoken with precious little willpower, and even the threat of para-military tweakers didn't make him pull away from those warm hands.

"You really in such a hurry to get going?" Dean asked, a hand snaking down into the kid's jeans to find a willing participant.

In truth, Dean wasn't all that sleepy. He was terrified. If the ritual proved him human, great, but if not...well he'd be about three seconds from sucking on a shotgun, and he was too beautiful to need another hole in the head.

But it also gave Dean personal satisfaction to know that, even after attempts with pretty young neighbors and zombie cheerleader gangbangs, he could make Sam come just by looking at him sideways, even moreso now that Dean had a 50/50 chance of sprouting a tail. Sam could try and kill his morning wood with all the responsibility in the world, once Dean crawled between his legs he was back to being a lonely schoolboy looking to get his ass fucked.

"Come on I'll make it quick," Dean said, looking forward to grinding into the kid on auto-pilot for a couple of hours.

Sam's eyed rolled into the back of his head as a hand worked the length of his cock, the chains rattling against his pant leg, and dropping the bedroll he reached up to grab Dean's hair.

"Yeah I thought so." Dean said, grinning like a tomcat.

They crashed together against the oak tree, Sam's cheek scraping against the bark as the other boy bit his ear. "Fuck..." he said, heedless of his scratched face as his cock got the attention it'd been hungry for all morning, fast and steady as a salt shaker.

"You're gonna make me a mess..." he whispered.

"Then take off your pants."

Sam did as he was told, hands trembling in excitement as he undid his belt, like a diver walking into the shark tank. He only looked up when a finger wiped away a streak of blood from his lip.

"I don't want to bust you up on this tree," Dean said, "Come on, cut me out of these things."

"No," Sam insisted, turning to press his bruised mouth against his, "Keep 'em on."

Dean's smile crept up one side of his face, and said nothing as they kissed, not even disconnecting when Sam shucked off his jeans and pushed them down to the ground, his legs wrapped around the older boy's waist as he was laid down.

But even that little contact with the kid's cock was close to setting him off, and they wanted it to last longer than that, so he was flipped over onto his belly, fingers parting over tree roots that undulated thru the loam.

He didn't want it nice and sweet. He wanted his face pushed into the mud, his cock scraping the earth plaintively as it was ignored, and the rain pooled around his knees as his shoulder was clutched for balance.

"Aaah-!" he said, still sore from last night. But he settled into the pain, hair in his eyes as hips battered into him. He really wanted to finish, but he hated begging.

"I can do this all day," a voice hissed in his ear, "You gonna be raw tonight."

"Fucking keep going..."

"Man you are two shakes away." he said, reaching around to take the eager cock now standing at attention.

"No not yet-"

"What, aren't I nice to you?" he whispered, plowing him into the dirt, teeth against the boy's ear.

"I'm close, please, wait-"

"I know." he said, as the boy's voice pitched higher and higher, stretching out as he tried holding himself back and failing. He never got tired of that sound.

"Ha!" as a hand slapped his ass, "You always were an easy make."

It wasn't just the tease that set his teeth on edge. It was the unspoken truth that he'd gotten exactly what he'd never been able to give back in bed, that coarse machismo that handsome scoundrels like John radiated effortlessly.

_Well_, said his cock, now growing soft in it's own stew,_ As your attorney, I advise you to harden the fuck up._

And leaning back to trade places, Sam climbed on top, the tree stretched out behind him as he replaced the boy back inside.

"Fuck baby boy," he said, as he was suddenly taken like a rodeo bull, "Where'd this come from?"

"Shut up." Sam said, kissing him hotly as their hips rocked, calloused fingers gripping his waist to set the rhythm.

"After this ritual...what if I'm still me?" Dean asked, as fingernails scratched the stubble on his jaw, "You still gonna want me?"

"I'm always gonna want you." he said, face in his hands, sucking greedily at his mouth.

Sam wrapped his hands in the chains, bringing them taught until he was hanging against them, rain pouring down his chiseled body in rivulets.

The older boy wouldn't last, he was being ridden so hard, and the kid's cold fury made him swell with desire.

"And I'm gonna find that thing that hurt you."

There it was, the murder in the kid's eyes that made half of him want to love it dead again, and half let it initiate him into the next level, make him into a better gun. He shut his eyes, giving himself up into the kid, not knowing where this sudden need for control had come from...

"I'll flay his hide and make myself a rug."

...and too scared of it to care.

And in the final moments, "And then I will fuck you on it."

* * *

><p>tbc<p> 


	17. Hurt the World

**Another short and smutty one, but more to come soon.**

* * *

><p>Grain silos are the truck nuts of hill country, great erogenous towers in an otherwise empty skyline signifying who had the longest bank balance. So when Dean passed three of them on the way to the henhouse, he knew one missing chicken would not go amiss.<p>

The rancher had over five thousand chickens, mostly fryers with thighs so thick they could barely carry their own weight. Dean could have plucked any one of them off the ground like ripe, foul-smelling fruit.

So of course he had to try for a rooster instead.

Bantams are beautiful creatures, lean and cruel with feathers so black they turned blue in direct sun. They are also loud as fuck, and can sing all one thousand verses of the Bitch Put Me Down song, as Dean was to discover on the hike back.

"Who's the damn bird for anyhow?" Dean asked testily, locking it in a beer cooler.

"Not…entirely sure, some variation on a hungry ghost," said Sam, loading their guns, "But once it's eaten, we can ask it to summon the wolf."

"Yeah, well, next time we'll take it to Hooters and order it some wings, I am scratched up all to hell."

"Then we can get going," Sam said, stuffing his water bottle in his pack, "We don't want to run out of daylight when the wolf shows up."

"How the hell we supposed to hunt the thing?" Dean asked, "We ain't got no silver."

"You stunned it last night, right?" he said, walking over and handing him his rifle.

"Yeah?"

"So I summon it, it runs straight for me," Sam said, "You hole up in a tree, shoot it in the head once it's close enough-"

"I ain't using you as bait Sammy-"

"-and once it's down we can kill it by ordinary means." Sam finished.

"There's no 'ordinary' means with a werewolf." Dean said.

"It can only heal so fast, we do enough damage and it won't get up again." said Sam, chewing his lip, "Assuming I can lure it our way."

"Please, you're gonna be cheese on a toothpick," Dean said, resigning himself to the plan, "Wish we had more chain, I'd feel better if we had some way of hog-tying it."

Sam flushed, recalling the sex earlier that morning, and felt he needed to defend his little outburst.

"Listen," he said, glancing at Dean's wrists where the manacles had cut in, "I'm sorry, about what I said earlier, I've been on edge..."

"Hey you don't need to apologize." said Dean, smiling, not sorry at all.

"I get so wound up and…I hate those men, and being stuck here when you're on the hunt," Sam admitted, "I hate it when you're gone..."

_With John_, neither of them said aloud.

"Right," Dean said, slapping the kid's ass, fondly remembering their little bronco fight and happy to let the kid have a second round, "Fuck me like that some more and tell me how much you hate it."

Sam was sorely tempted, eager to ride his way into the older boy's heart. "We gotta start that ritual." he said, taking a step back. He had to keep his head straight, and Dean could turn his brain into slurry better than any bottle of rye.

"Aw, don't I get something for the rooster?" he said, leaning in with hooded eyes, "I spent the last hour thinking how we're about to put up an ad for a demon butler that reads BIG BLACK COCK."

"Quit it-" he said, chewing his lip from where he'd hit the tree earlier and half wishing to be knocked down again.

"Naw you got that look on your face, like I'm gonna run once trouble comes knocking-"

"Dean-"

"-and the only thing for it is to wring it out of you." he said, grabbing the kid's belt to haul him close, resting a cheek to his, "Come on, I ran here when I lost the fight last night, and I stayed even when I was half out of my mind for fear of getting caught with that girl's blood on my hands."

Sam let his shirt be unbuttoned, looking down at the pale strip where Dean's ring used to be.

_But I'm not what you really want_, Sam thought, as he was laid gently to the ground. Dean was right though, Sam was preoccupied, scared that they would botch this job when they should have gone to John for help, and the memory of almost losing Dean to the old man itched at him, taunted him with all the possible ways Dean could have strayed while thinking Sam was dead.

His shirt was pulled back, hands running down the kid's arms until he was softly pinned from behind.

He knew all this fucking around only took the edge off of what Dean really wanted from John. Dean was the drunk who smoked at AA meetings, substituting the lesser evil for the one that would kill him sooner. He'd been saving himself for the old man, and why drag so many dead monsters on the doormat when he could grab the headboard and make of himself a living sacrifice? And why would John need to scare the kid into getting results when he could lead him around by his dick like a leash?

Sam closed his eyes as a hand made it's way between his legs, already hard as a wet mouth scraped his neck.

If John won that first night, he wouldn't want to dirty his hands with the job of getting the kid off, he would no doubt appeal to Dean's baser instincts, hiring some tow-headed girl, encasing Dean's cock in the high-quality confines of a virgin cunt while he pounded into the boy from the other end, one for the plug and one for the socket.

He wished he could have put his arms around the older boy, but his wrists were locked down, powerful arms under his knees and wrapped around his waist, pinned like a bug on velvet.

The old man would be only too happy to have such an eager young thing, an unharvested rose to park his stem at night. But John would always be the conditional lover. You only got it after the kill. Until then, he'd make do with others, Dean aching on a cold floor while John's cock knocked against the roof of some whore's mouth.

They sped up, their backs straining like suspension bridge cables, and Sam knew this wouldn't be a quickie, he'd have to grind his teeth thru this one.

He bristled at the thought of Dean's face buried in John's lap every night, and it would serve him right, wouldn't it? After all, John was the righteous man, and Sam was just the little freak that liked to stick his dick in whatever undead flunkie came his way.

The sun was high in the sky, Sam's ring clinking against the hardscrabble like a stopwatch. "We gotta hurry."

Dean smiled. "Nope, you still got that look on your face."

"We just did it a few hours ago-"

"Well if you're gonna fuck me after the hunt," he said, sucking on his bruised lip, "I wanna make sure you last."

Sam's breath hitched as his lip bled, his cock jumping.

"Don't you take me for no wide-eyed prom date," he said, grabbing it in his sweaty fist, "I got standards, and if you only last ten seconds and then roll over and fall asleep, I will break your nose."

"I'll make good, I swear..."

"You better," he said bitterly, remembering his first time with a woman, "Last thing I need's another dirty memory."

"I wouldn't hurt you..." he said, breath hot in his ear, right on the edge now.

Sam's face twisted, head falling back as that dark look of his was replaced by the calm Dean knew was only the eye of the storm. And that was the real difference between John and Sam, Dean thought, the way they scared him. The old man might beat the crap out of him to keep in line, but this kid? He'd hurt everyone else.

He'd hurt the world.

* * *

><p>"Where you wanna set up?" Dean asked afterwards, swishing his mouth with whiskey in lieu of a toothbrush.<p>

"Not here," Sam said, taking a swig and grimacing as he spit out more red than amber, "Too many places to hide, we summon anything in these trees and we'd probably trip over it."

"What about the overlook?"

A bald patch of granite that jutted from the treeline like a tooth, the overlook was an hour's hike thru the burnt part of the forest, an eerie moonscape where even the insects did not nest.

"Just thinkin' the same thing." Sam said, as Dean stood to search the camp for spare ammo.

"Crap, these guys took everything with them, not even a spoon for me to hammer into the thing." he said, rummaging around the other hunter's weapons cache for silver, "And I think the sons 'a whores ate my licorice."

"Sadly, no," Sam said, rolling his eyes, "Keep looking, the'll have left something in case of an emergency."

Dean turned over another box, and pulled out a little gray canister. "Hey, any idea what this is?" he said, his thumb rubbing a serial number rusted over save for the word RIOT below the pin.

"Pack it," said Sam absently, pulling his rutsack over his shoulders, "We can always use a grenade."

"They have any other places they could have stashed supplies?" Dean asked, running a hand thru his hair. The snacks had to be somewhere, his last foray into licorice withdrawal had involved daylight hallucinations of marshmallow Peeps clawing his eyes out.

"If you're really desperate you can go back down the mountain-"

"Aw yeah, betcha the gas station's got some Twizzlers," Dean said, snapping his fingers, "You're a genius."

"I was gonna say break into their trucks and see if they left any silver there," Sam said, his mouth a thin line, "I already packed our food."

"Oh. Great." Said Dean, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "Okay, I'm gonna check the cars, if I'm not at the outlook in two hours, you come back here," Dean said, pointing at the ground, "If you run into the others first, you never saw me, and the whole ritual idea was you getting a wild hair up your ass, tryin' to be useful to the hunt."

A package hit him in the face. "Take your ugly snacks and get useful already."

"What're you talking about," he said, popping a piece into his mouth, "Mah fnacks are awefome."

"Your snacks taste like computer cables done horked up by a cat. See this?" Sam said, holding up an empty plastic Oreo tray, "The raccoons ate up all my shit in the night. _Yours_ did not get _touched_. "

Dean swallowed and stuffed the packet protectively inside his jacket. "Don't you listen to the bad man," he whispered to it as he made his way down the trail, "Maybe tonight I'll paint circles around his eyes, and the coons'll make him prom queen."

Sam smiled, pretending he hadn't heard that last jab.

"Don't be long." he whispered as Dean rounded the corner, right as a hand clamped down over his mouth, lifting him off his feet.


	18. Bad Ritual

Dean fingered the bandages on his arm, the claw marks beginning to itch, and he was so distracted that he didn't register the men's voices until he was almost on top of the camp.

"Listen, he didn't come back last night!" Sam shouted. John and the other men were spread out, rifles trained on the surrounding woods, a muzzle pressed into the soft flesh by Sam's mouth.

Flattening himself against a tree, Dean held his breath, pricking his ears to listen.

"So you gave yourself a busted lip?" the lieutenant asked, "We found part of Dean's shirt stuck to a tree five miles from here."

"And a dead girl," said the sergeant, "Or bits of her at least."

"Any idea why someone would want to cut up a body before burying it?" asked the lieutenant.

"Or bury it all, instead of turning it over to the county coroner?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sam said thru his teeth.

"Then what's this doing next to your bedroll?" asked the lieutenant, holding up the remainder of Dean's shirt, "Or ya keepin' it as a jack rag?"

Sam spat in his eye. Wiping his face, the lieutenant nodded to Sam's captor, and snatched up the boy's left hand.

"What are you-?" Sam began.

Dean dared not look around, but he could hear Sam's boots scuffing, protests muffled under a meaty forearm. Removing his belt with his free hand, the lieutenant wrapped it around Sam's wrist, and stretched his arm over a nearby tree stump while the bigger man kept him in place.

They had no patience for lightweights.

"Right," said the lieutenant, pulling out his swiss army knife, and Sam's eyes widened, "Here's what I think. Our fearless leader," he said, casting John a gimlet eye, "Sends Dean out to hunt the lycanthrope alone."

He wrapped the leather around his fist, pulling it tight until Sam's hand turned numb. "But he botches the kill," he said, opening the blade, "Gets bit, hulks out on an innocent bystander, and buries her to hide the evidence."

Dean covered his eyes._ I should go out, right now_, he thought, _and be taken hostage, or get shot, or both. Yeah, real smart._

"That's not how it happened," said Sam, his voice shaking, "You can't know that he's infected."

"That girl was a mess. Now why," he said, resting the edge against the soft web between Sam's thumb and forefinger, "Would someone feel the need to cut a body like that?"

"That's enough, let him go." John said.

"Shut up John," said the sergeant, "If you hadn't sent the boy on his own, we wouldn't be here cleaning up after you. So you can sit your ass down or I can shoot our your knees and make you."

"I know that there's a trail of blood from there to here," the lieutenant continued to Sam, "And it ain't yours. So where ya hiding him?"

Sam looked up thru his hair. He'd had his fair share of school bullies, and they seemed no different. "He's on a date. With your mom," he said, grinning, "I heard she only charges a dollar now's she got no teeth."

_No no no,_ Dean thought, his gut knotting as he realized what Sam was doing,_ Baby boy don't try and be Steve McfuckingQueen with these guys, they won't stop for milk money._

The blade sawed once, up, down, into his flesh like a jelly donut, and Sam opened his mouth on a silent scream. "Where's Dean?"

_Give them something,_ Dean thought desperately,_ Lie, anything, just get away so I can help you._

"I'm sorry," said Sam, stopping to breath every few words, "My mistake...he's with your dad...dunno why...your old man's hardly got...any tread on the tire it's like...tossin' a hot dog...down a hallway."

Another neat slice, and Sam, high on oxygen from panting so hard, looked down to see pearls of fat beneath his skin, and a detached part of him appreciated that at least the blade was very sharp.

"Where's Dean?"

"Why, you wanna...ask him out...to dinner, faggot?" Sam asked, with a manic giggle, "What kind are you a...butch faggot or...just a faggoty faggot?"

Dean bit his tongue. _Sammy, _he thought, trying not to laugh,_ You are a poet._

The man grabbed the wound, twisting the hand, and Sam wailed.

"Where's Dean?"

"I don't know-" he said, his voice high and small, starting to realize the trouble he was in.

"Kid, we got ten hours before the sun sets, just point the way he ran-"

"You can't kill him!" Sam cried out shrilly, crumpling under the pain, "He's not what you're looking for, he's the best shot you've got!"

"Not anymore," said the lieutenant, "Now he's just a mongrel needs putting down."

Dean reached beneath his shirt to check his 9mm. He had a full clip, if he was lucky he could put a round in each of the old men, and if he was really lucky he'd only hit Sam in the arm and get him to a medic before he passed out from blood loss. He still had the grenade he'd pocketed from the main camp, but he couldn't lob it unless Sam got clear of the others first.

Right.

They were fucked.

"Sammy, tell us what happened," John asked, "He get bit?"

"Clawed," said Sam, his breath fast and shallow, "But that doesn't mean anything, right?"

The older men all looked to John. "He should be safe." he said, lowering his gun, and Dean wilted with relief as he heard Sam being released.

"But how do you know?" asked the sergeant, not convinced, "You ever talked to someone who walked away from a werewolf scrap and didn't turn?"

"There's a way to know..." Sam whispered, cradling his hand, but no one was paying attention.

"You have to be bit." John insisted.

"You're talkin' out your ass John," said the sergeant, "We don't have a way of knowin', not til dark and then it's too late."

John seemed to consider this. "Sam, you said there's a way to check," he said, pointing his gun at the beer cooler, "What's with the chicken?"

Sam looked at him, amazed he could be so cool thru the proceedings. "Glad you asked," he bit out, grabbing a bottle of whiskey to pour over his wound, "There's...there's a ritual..."

* * *

><p>Sam bent over a scrap of paper weighted by rocks, scratching symbols onto it with a burnt bit of kindling. The older hunters loomed at a safe distance.<p>

"How long will it take?" asked the sergeant.

"Depends how far away the wolf is," said Sam, "He'll come, but even on four legs it could take a while."

They shuffled uneasily, casting their gaze across the overlook, a forest of telephone polls after a recent fire. "Well at least we'll see it coming." one of them admitted.

"Okay, I'm ready." said Sam, standing up to remove his shirt, "There'll be some bloodspray, so keep back."

Dean, crouched nearby, watched the sunlight glitter against Sam's ring, and and his chest welled with panic. Spitting in your interrogator's face was one thing, summoning eldritch repo-men to drag a werewolf by it's tail was another.

But the boy could have easily sold him out under pressure. Dean doubted he'd have been so noble under the knife, and he was grateful to have such an advocate.

Stretching his arms toward east and west, Sam began to recite the Latin to himself. The soldiers twitched uneasily at the prospect of animal sacrifice, and wondered that John would permit this method of clearing Dean's name.

"I'm starting to see why that hiker was butchered so," the sergeant hissed in John's ear, "Even if Dean's human, it don't give him leave to kill strange girls in the night."

"Dean's a good kid, with the makings of a great man, who's gonna leave his mark on this world. And for that," replied John, fingering his rifle as he regarded his colleague blankly, "I would sacrifice a thousand strangers."

Dean sat in silence, folding John's words into the little black box he only brought out on the really bad days to come. _ How ever many more I get. _he thought.

The words warped and twisted in Sam's mouth, from Latin to something much, much older. Speaking the last verse, Sam closed his eyes and brought his hands together in a resounding clap. The sound echoed across the valley, and a cloud passed over the sun until they were pitched into gloom.

All except for Sam.

_Sammy_, Dean thought fearfully, _What's wrong with your shadow?_

Sam continued to chant, and his shadow split twice, thrice, refracted like a paper cutout doll. He rocked on the balls of his feet to music only he and his shadows could hear, his back straining as they climbed up his back, long black threads that encircled him until he was marbled in dark.

He clapped a second time and the earth split, granite cracking between his feet in a drunken zig zag, and pale, polluted groundwater swelled from the fracture to puddle round his feet.

But he did not open his eyes, instead bending down to the cooler at his feet, feeling inside for the rooster with one hand, and a boning knife with the other.

"Where'd he find this?" asked the sergeant.

"It's Old World magic, before the Inquisition," replied John, "Lot of good men were burned alive for this."

The sergeant looked Sam up and down distastefully, a whole village of phantom arms reaching out for the succulent bird, the scarecrow trees swaying back and forth in time to Sam's body when there wasn't a breath of wind on the air. "Imagine that."

With a final declaration, Sam raised the rooster in his fist, and brought it down on the hexed circle below, snapping it's neck. His shadows detached, latching onto the bait, and the hunters watched in horrid fascination as the meat was stripped from its bones.

"Demons." concluded the old men, and even John looked a little uneasy.

The rooster screeched in terror, paralyzed but still conscious as smoky fingers slipped inside both ends of it's body and played tug-of-war with its entrails. His eyes shining, cheeks flushed, Sam knelt down in a growing pool of blood.

And bringing his hands together for a third clap, the bird exploded in a warm rain.

"Fucking hell..." said one of the men, wiping blood off his face.

But Sam didn't let the lure lay for long. Tossing the knife to his good hand, he pinned one of the shadows to the circle, and started a new chant, this one more complicated and...reminded Dean of a phone sex operator?

_What's Latin for Cocktease_? he thought, smiling to himself.

The lone shadow stopped struggling, listening to Sam as if hearing good sense for the first time in it's life, and entered the rooster.

"Shit, he got it to possess the damn thing?" said one of the men.

Regarding Sam with an eerily intelligent expression, it listened to his offer, and said, "Yeeeesss..."

"What did you just do?" the sergeant asked, once Sam pulled up his knife, the ghost skittering away airborne in the rooster's ruined body, "Are you it's boyfriend now?"

"Ha ha," said Sam, blinking as the sun came back out, "It'll summon the lycanthrope for us, in exchange for more food."

"What, for another bantam?"

"Yeah I guess." he said, smiling.

The older hunters watched him with slanted eyes, this kid who could smile so easily while sticky and bruised and his shadow still ragged from thaumaturgic mitosis.

"So that's it, right?" Sam asked hopefully, "Dean hasn't come tearing in, so he ain't got Monster Cooties."

"He's right," said John, "I mean, we can wait a bit, see if he follows the summons..."

But the sergeant looked down at the bloody remains on the hex circle, and wondered who else might end up in Sam's ghost blender. "If I didn't know better, I'd say we get more rope."

Sam's face fell. "What?"

"What kind of hunter trafficks with demons?" asked the lieutenant, raising his rifle, "How do we know the werewolf ain't...beholden to you or somethin', that you didn't just send a crony to fetch it and kill us all to save your boyfriend's ass?"

"Whoa, guys, that wasn't a demon..." Sam said, hands up in surrender.

"Put down your knife boy." said one of the men.

"Putting it down, sir." said Sam, bending over to toss it, "I ain't gonna hurt you, if we just wait-"

But he didn't have time, because the next moment a rope lassoed around his neck.

"Sam!" John cried out, as Sam was dragged across the ground.

"Watch it." said one of the men, aiming a gun at John.

The rope was tossed over a high branch, and fitting the noose on Sam's neck, he was hauled upwards like a pinata, hands grasping at his throat.

"Let's talk this out-" said John, but they weren't hearing it.

"Enough," said the sergeant, "You talked us into bringing two kids, and then talked us into the idea of letting Dean hunt on his own. Fuck-ups are one thing, Spooky the Clown here is another."

"Put him down!" John shouted, right as the butt of a rifle clipped his head, and he fell sideways.

_Showtime._ Dean thought. Aiming as best he could, blinking away tears as he tried to block out Sam's reddening face, he fired away, nearly emptying his clip as he shot out the rope until it was nary a thread.

"The hell did that come from?" one of the men asked as Sam dropped to the ground.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, "To me!"

As Sam raced toward him, Dean reached for the grenade in his jacket, and lobbed it into the crowd.

"Are you okay?" Dean asked, panicking when he didn't hear a bang. Did the grenade pin not come out all the way?

"I'm fine," Sam croaked, clutching his shirt, "Quick, the car's this way."

They got about ten paces when a howl rent the air, the earth spitting up clouds of dust.

"That didn't take long." Sam said, the blood draining from his face.

"We can't go this way," Dean said, "It'll run straight at us."

"We can't jump off the cliff either!"

"No," Dean agreed, looking down at where he'd left the old men, "But we can go the other way down the trail."

"What, cut past the guys trying to kill us?"

"They might hesitate," said Dean, "The wolf won't."

Sam swallowed the fear threatening to suffocate him, and grabbed Dean's hand. "Okay."

Running in step, they hurtled back toward the overlook, only vaguely aware of the low mist clinging to the rocks, the men staggering about with their hands over their faces and screaming as if on fire, though John did not appear to be among them.

The trail took a sudden dive, and the boys skidded first on their boots and then landed hard, rolling over and over thru the blasted heath until they were grey with ash. When they finally hit bottom, Sam was facedown at the edge of a briar field.

"Dean..." he whispered, his injured hand throbbing, "It's coming, the wolf...you think you can get a shot from here?"

"Sammy..."

Dean was curled up on his side, his fists balled into his face.

It hadn't been a grenade.

It was tear gas.

* * *

><p>Sam dragged Dean thru the field, thorns tickling his legs as he struggled under the older boy's weight.<p>

"You need to go," Dean said, tears streaming from his swollen eyes, "I can't see for shit and I'm gonna twist my ankle we keep up this pace."

"I'm not leaving you."

A fist collided with his jaw, and Sam sprawled on his back, a handgun landing hard on his stomach.

"There's three shots left," said Dean, talking to a point just left of Sam, "The wolf'll chase the others for a while, now they're disoriented, but assuming they survive, they'll come for us soon."

Sam stared at the gun.

"We can't hurt it," Dean said, holding out his hand to pull Sam up, "But we can shock it."

"How?"

"Zipper line," said Dean, "You have to hit it in all the right places."

He pressed a dirty thumb to Sam's solar plexus, his voice catching. "Here."

His thumb came up to Sam's heart. "Here."

And finally, his hand trembling, Sam's face a pink blur, he pressed the spot between his eyes. "And here."

"Will it die?"

"Probably not." said Dean, dropping his hand, "But it'll give you time."

"Dean..."

"Now go find a tree, if it's smart it'll be on all fours to hide in the grass."

Sam reached out for the boy's face.

"We're gonna die, aren't we..." he whispered, his cut hand weeping blood and promising more if they waited long enough.

"Yeah," said Dean, smiling, "But first you gotta get up in a tree. You can die all you want after that."

"Dean-"

"And then, if you're in the tree and you're not dead yet, you gotta shoot the wolf, and after that you can die."

"Please-"

"And you're still not dead, you gotta bury me in a righteous tuxedo, I saw this jazz player in Vegas, had a sweet red sequin three-piece-"

Sam pulled him close, covering his mouth, and the first real tears of despair leaked out of both of them, sweet as kisses remembered after death. Dean wrapped his arms around him, wishing he could see his face one more time, and contented himself with the warm metal of the ring now buried in his hair as Sam fingers wove thru his hair.

"I hate this plan." said Sam, burying his face in Dean's sunburnt neck.

"You're the one that wanted a carpet." said Dean, grabbing the boy's hips.

Their kiss deepened, anxious, panicked, wanting to stave off the inevitable parting. "I don't know...if I can kill this thing..." Sam said, breathless under the boy's roaming mouth.

"Tell me you're gonna kill this thing," he said, teeth set against his ear, boots creaking as he leaned in, "Say it."

"I'll kill it."

"Say it again."

Sam shut his eyes as their bodies crushed, bound in the older boy's arms, remembering the bird. "I'll kill it."

"Again."

The way it struggled, the peaceful expression on its face when the ghost climbed inside and claimed it.

"I'll kill it, and..."

His hand hot on Dean's back, with that awful, secret wish to make of him a living sacrifice.

"And then I'll come for you..."

Another howl, closer this time, followed by a man begging for mercy, and the boys flew apart from each other.

"Tree." said Dean.

"Right."

"And Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"If...anything else shows up first," he said, John's face swimming in the red haze, "Don't go wasting my bullets."

_Even if they have it coming_, they both thought.

Sam watched him go, and sucked in a deep breath, focusing on the job. Reaching down to his feet, he scooped up handfuls of black earth, and began to camoflauge himself, scrubbing all over, hard enough to draw blood, until he was dark as a boot. His shadow shimmered at the edges, still sick from the ghost dance.

He held up his arms. He could have leaned against a tree, closed his eyes, and disappeared. West of him, the bantam echoed across the empty hills in an eerie facsimile of human speech.

And then, too scared to look at Dean's receding form, afraid it would haunt him after today, he began to run.


	19. Poisoned Apple

**SLIGHT AU: in this world, lycanthropes are just huge wolves who were once human, they don't revert to original form upon dying and are a little easier to kill.**

* * *

><p>Dean snatched at a tree limb, barely able to see five feet in front of him, and stopped to catch his breath. By his reckoning he'd covered several miles, changing direction and backtracking every now and then in case he was followed, and he hadn't heard so much as a bird fart in the last ten minutes.<p>

But he'd sweated off any water he'd drunk last night, and he couldn't recall seeing any streams on this end of the park map. Failing to see a team of milk-fed maidens armed with fire hoses, he felt around the shadow of the tree and, feeling his fingers go squish, stripped off his shirt and mourned the loss of yet another favorite article of clothing.

"Let's hope it don't give me disenterry." he muttered, filling his shirt with mud and twisting the top off until he had a little gunney sack. And balancing it over his face, he wrung out a mouthful of brown water.

"Pleh," he spat, shaking his head when he got a snootful of it, "Man I am mainlining the Welch's when I get home."

"Oh you won't be getting that far son." said the sergeant, a cold barrel pressed against the back of his neck.

He dropped the shirt, hands on top of his head. "I ain't armed."

"We can see that." said the sergeant, backing up a pace or two, "Where's Sam?"

"Couldn't tell you."

"You mean you don't know," asked the lieutenant, "Or you won't tell?"

"I gave him my piece, told him to track the wolf," said Dean, squinting at two more figures, "He's probably miles away."

"Good to know." said the lieutenant, "Now strip."

"What?" Dean asked, as hands grabbed his arms and pinned him.

"The wolf isn't far," said the sergeant, "We gotta know if you was bit."

"How bout if I just tell you-" he shouted, gasping as his bandages were torn off his arm.

"Take his pants." said the sergeant, and despite his struggling Dean was held fast, shrinking from the sudden touch of fingers between his legs.

"The fuck guys-"

"Your little stunt back there cost us a man," said the sergeant, pulling off the remainder of Dean's clothes, "But right now we need all the muscle available. So if you want in on this hunt, we gotta know you won't turn."

"Who says I'd ever hunt with trash like you?"

A hand grabbed his jaw and pulled him close. "Says this roll of ductape that'll stick you to that tree and leave you for bait if you don't mind your mouth."

"He's clean." declared one of the men.

Dean licked his lips. "Hey, guys, I didn't know it was tear gas-"

"Well you get to bury him if it makes you feel any better."

In the distance, three shots rang out, and the men fell silent.

"Sammy..." Dean whispered, "That didn't sound too far away."

"Where'd he get the silver bullets?" asked the sergeant.

"He didn't, we couldn't find-"

"You mean he just worked up a lycanthrope within tossing distance of us?" asked the sergeant angrily.

"No really, we know what we're doing, if-"

"Alright, ya know what?" said the sergeant, cutting him off, "I think you and your comrade are too stupid to live."

"Wait, no, I can help you!" Dean begged, the ductape zipping.

"You're blind as a kitten boy, you ain't much use for anything else right now," said the sergeant as Dean felt someone bind his feet, "Now shut up and let us work."

He was pushed to his knees, where his wrists were bound and tied to his ankles.

"You can't leave me here!"

"Aw boo, don't worry, we won't go far." said the lieutenant.

"Yeah, shout if you need anything."

"You guys are _dead_," said Dean, straining to see thru the gloom, "I'm gonna step on your rotten old pumpkins til your brains leak thru my toes."

"That's it, get good and riled," said the sergeant as his steps faded, "Perspiration's good for scent tracking."

Dean stretched against the tape. If he had an hour to work it against a rock he could loose himself, but he could hear crashing in the underbrush, and he knew he had mere minutes.

If John were in his place, he'd probably gnaw a tree branch into a tiny spear and gore the wolf with it held between his teeth like a lurid tango rose. John wouldn't be scared, he wouldn't have let those guys handle him like a green horse, he wouldn't be sitting here alone this close to crying hard toddler tears.

But he wasn't John. He never would be.

_Fuck it, play dead_. he thought, and rolled onto his side in his best approximation of roadkill. He wondered how Sam would react when he found his corpse after all of this was over, and regretted not being able to draw black cartoon Xs over his eyes. Sammy would have appreciated the last laugh.

And then he heard it. Softly treading in the briarpatch, breathing set far apart as if with lungs the size of wine barrels, a low hum of destruction wrapped in fear and teeth. Silent steps on the pinestraw, and then hot breath huffed on his skin, a wet nose pressing to his belly, and Dean did his best not to look too nutritious.

Black lips pulled back, and the little hairs on Dean's forehead popped up as his face was searched for signs of life. _How does Sam get off on this?_ he thought, his whole body stiff with fear.

But then a flock of birds floated up, and the wolf swiveled to see who was prowling nearby.

All three men took shots, and blood sprayed over Dean as it reared back, howling in surprise at the ambush. It lept onto its hind legs, standing fully ten feet high with arms outstretched, and tore thru the swarm of buckshot. Dean tried crawling for cover, but it was near impossible to move with his bindings, and thru the buzz of gun-deafness Dean heard the men barking orders.

But they would have done better to stay quiet.

"I got a bead AAAAAAA-"

Dean heard a wet tearing noise and a rattling curse as one of the men was plucked from his hiding place.

One by one, the old men were sniffed out, one headfirst (a blessing really), the other feetfirst (because at this point the wolf wanted sport more than spoils, and watching its prey run on stumps counted as high theater).

After the final kill, the wolf circled back, heavy with the meat of other men, and Dean pressed his face into the earth, counting one heartbeat to the next and wondering how many he had left. He looked at the trees, and was faced with the nightmarish prospect that he wouldn't die today, that he could be infected for real this time, cursed to these woods until an older, meaner Sam came back to pin his hide over the mantel.

He turned his head, and the wolf looked back, two red eyes like stoplights on a darkened interstate.

_Red mean stop,_ he thought,_ Well at least I'll die human._

"You owe me a shirt." Dean hissed, and leapt out at its throat.

Normally he'd be dead by now. But the earth was wet with the creature's blood, and it was all it could do to bat at his head with claws not extended. They grappled for a while, Dean on top with his kneecaps scraping the ground for purchase, the creature's whines of distress more felt than heard. And digging into fur and bone, his teeth met in the middle, and yanked out a great rope of blood vessels.

It struggled for another minute, Dean weighing it down as he best he could, and when at last it was silent, he rolled off, spitting hair out of his mouth.

"Fuck..." he said, closing his eyes, sore after the adrenaline rush. Where the hell was Sam? He couldn't have not heard all that noise.

He breathed hard, his chest aching from thirst and stress, when a hand came under his chin.

"Get up."

Dean opened his eyes, but shut them again, still sensitive to the light.

"Come on, up you go." and he was pulled onto his knees.

"Open your eyes."

"...I can't, it hurts." said Dean.

"It's okay, I got something for it."

And tilting his face upwards, he opened his eyes, and a stream of water poured down, sluicing into his grateful mouth, washing away the last of the stinging gas agent. After blinking the rest away with a wet dog shake, he looked up to find John in a bleary halo.

"...I thought it had killed you," Dean whispered, "I heard screaming after we ran off..."

John looked around, saddened at the number of graves he'd have to prepare. "I was the lucky one."

"Is it dead?" Dean asked, as John walked behind to cut his bindings.

"Should be, though if it decides to get back up it'll be like hunting a baby rabbit." he said, ripping off the tape.

"Thanks." he said, massaging his wrists.

John stopped to run a thumb over Dean's face. "You've got blood on your mouth."

Dean felt his face flush, he'd never been naked in front of John, and he kept talking to stay focused. "The rangers will have heard all the shots, we oughta head back to camp."

"You ahead," said John, turning his back on him, "I need to start digging."

"Here, I can help-"

"You helped enough," said John sharply, "If it hadn't been for the tear gas we wouldn't have been caught weak during the first raid."

Dean was taken aback. "...I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"And you mind telling me why you didn't come to me in the first place when you thought you might be infected?" he asked, jabbing the wound in Dean's arm.

Dean's mouth opened and closed silently, what could he say? It has been Sam's idea? He was ashamed of coming back to John with poor results?

"Don't you trust me?" John asked, right up in Dean's face.

"Yes sir-"

"Don't you wanna work with me?"

"Yes sir-"

"Don't I give you everything you need?"

Dean averted his eyes, desparately trying to keep his hands by his sides. "Yes sir."

"Haven't I been good to you?"

"Yes sir, sorry sir, I won't do it again."

"Good," said John, standing up, his face dark with disappointment, "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to bury my friends."

Dean's mouth trembled. "Don't you want me...?" _to help?_, he'd meant to say.

John turned, grabbing his hair and yanking back. "I swear," he whispered, "If those men meant anything, _anything_ to me..."

Dean held his breath, paralyzed by John's anger.

John seemed to choke on his words. "Why can't you just do as you're told?"

"I'm sorry-" but was cut off by a much more dangerous animal burying its mouth in his neck.

Dean tried to fight it, but he was so happy to be alive, so thirsty, and John's skin was hot and salty with sweat. His back arched on the ground as a leg pressed against his cock.

"Don't ever do that to me again," John said, "I can't abide..."

"I won't." he said hoarsely.

John was still fully dressed, but he pressed against him, his knees coming on either side to rest against a matching set of handguns.

"I need someone I can count on." said John, his hand reaching between the boy's legs, "This...lawlessness a' yours..."

Dean bit on his lower lip, chest heaving at his touch. "Whatever you want I'll do it."

"I know." he said, slicking the boy's cock with wolf blood until it stood long and thick as a billyclub.

John's breath was got in his ear, and he scrabbled to get under the old man's shirt, to run his hands up and feel all that hard muscle respond to his touch.

"Whatever you want..." Dean continued, closing his eyes, "...you can have it."

John seemed to consider this. "You sure 'bout that?"

And slipping a finger inside, the darkness closing down on him like a little pink fist, the boy making a desperate noise, and even John found his resolve slipping.

"You deserve it." the boy whispered, and in his delirium, the proof of a good kill still drying on his face, he believed it. All other sources of joy were blotted out, beer and women and sunshine and singing with the window rolled down were swept under by the desire to be a gun on legs in exchange for a merciless fuck.

John looked down at his prize, at this young man begging to be claimed, to be shaped in his image. He ran an expert finger along the boy's collarbone, trailing the pulse of his neck, and wondered idly if he could count on the same display of martial sport Dean just showed with the wolf. And then his eyes snapped to the wound on his arm, and his belly went cold.

John turned his head, jaw working. "Wait."

Dean blinked. "What'd I do wrong?"

But John was walking away, pulling a knife from his belt. "I have to know for sure."

Dean was about to ask for an explanation, when John buried the knife under the wolf's ribcage, and reached inside with a flat hand.

"What are you-" he trailed off,

"There's only one cure for lycanthropism," said John, standing tall with a hot bloody lump in his hands, "You have to eat the heart of that which bit you."

Dean stared at the offering. "...but I wasn't bit."

"I don't know...what you are," he said, "But I couldn't live with myself if I thought you might be infected."

John knelt before him. "If this is what you want, this hunting life, I have to know I can trust you, that you are one hundred percent what you say you are."

Dean looked up, tears welling, wishing he could think straight, knowing he needed to be somewhere else. _Where the hell was Sam?_

John noted his hesitation. "Sam's a kid. Kids get older...and change their minds."

"He wouldn't..."

"You sure?"

Dean hadn't even considered the idea. Would Sam grow out of him, like the school girls had before spring break? Was Dean just, whatever, _practice_ for a real life?

"Look, I have to go back to town and report their deaths," John said, "The rangers will be happy to see the problem's taken care of."

"Can I come-?"

"No, you're to stay," he said, cradling the heart onto a bed of leaves, "Don't know how long this thing needs to take, might be a minute, might be longer."

He got up to leave. "I won't be long."

Dean said nothing as he left, a little stunned that John hadn't so much as given his clothes back, and he wondered that he could turn hot and cold so efficiently. Getting up to dress, his knees bruised and creaking from the fight, he lurched to grab his pants and shirt, too tired to pull on his boots, and figuring he could use them to collect some rainwater depending on the weather tonight.

Pulling the shirt over his head, he eyed the heart cautiously. John was a scary, obsessed son of a bitch who would never put up with shenanigans, laugh at Dean's jokes, waste time on sentiment. But at least he knew what he wanted. Sam? In a few years?

Which boy would change first?

The heart was warm in Dean's hands, glistening as it dripped a string of black pearls onto the ground. _Fuck, how many had to die for this_? he thought.

And holding his breath, he bit into it.

He touched his mouth, suddenly numb. _Something's wrong,_ he thought, as his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fell to the ground.


	20. In That Sleep of Death

Sam tread carefully, breathing thru his mouth as he followed the line of blood, gun raised in both hands and mud baked on his skin.

"Dean?" he hissed, prodding the corpse. Toeing it with his boot, he flipped it onto its back, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw the sergeant's ruined face. The eyes ran like egg yolks against bloodless cheeks, but compared to the others he was easily the prettiest member of the Wolf Chow Boy Band.

Sam ran his thumb against the ring nervously. He was running out of daylight, and this part of the park was so overgrown that anything could jump out at him. At the same time he was on fire, proud that he'd managed to get all three shots into the wolf, and desparate for another encounter.

He kept his back to a tree, alert for anything that might approach. He couldn't wait to impress Dean with the details of the fight. Not tonight, but some other night, soon, once they were out of this awful place. Just the two of them...

_...watching the Utah sky, so many stars it was more white than black, two beer bottles between them on the hood of a stolen car. Sam confessed how'd he'd been a little scared at first, but once he saw the creature he'd closed one eye and breathed into the shot, and Dean laughed and slapped him on the knee, his hand lingering a few seconds before Sam snatched it in his own..._

The stars began to come out, and it was getting harder to tell the difference between gravel and teeth, shadows and pools of blood.

_...and letting his bottle spill, he brought Dean's hand to his mouth, like an oxygen mask, and breathed into the hollow of his palm. When he didn't pull away, Sam guided it to the back of his head, and let his face be pressed into the warm strip of skin between shirt and bluejeans._

Sam refused to run from the dead men, from their blank stares. Dean couldn't have gotten far...

_He did not stop him, did nothing save for the softest twist of Sam's curls, the slightest rise of the hips to let his shirt ride up._

Soon they would both be out of here, even if it meant sneaking around John for another month, at least they'd be together. He searched the ground for some evidence of Dean passing thru here, but it was so dark...

_Sam's fingers pushed the shirt all the way, working the soft flesh above the buckle with slow wet kisses, and when the boy tensed against his mouth, aroused but curious of what would come next, Sam took the belt leather in his teeth, watching with greedy eyes as he began to undress him._

Why oh why the hell had he let them run off in different directions, with only one gun between them?

_He could feel the hardness beneath the fabric, begging to be freed. Sam wanted the control, but more than that he wanted to give, give everything that Dean had been denied. Once the jeans hit the dust, he wrapped his slender arms around the boy's waist, lifting him off the car, and pressed his tongue against the back of his cock._

A footpath cut west of him, and he followed it, his stomach turning when he saw the wolf tracks alongside it in parallel.

_His mouth watered at the taste, and he teased him mercilessly, never taking the full length into his mouth, giving him a few seconds of satisfaction before pulling off to bury his tongue below, always keeping him on the edge, until they were both weak in the knees from anticipation._

Panic building in his chest, he began to run.

_And wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve, Sam pressed a hand against the under side of the left knee, and leaned in for a kiss before going any further. The distraction was necessary, he had to keep the boy relaxed for the pain to come._

Please be hiding in a tree like a complete fucking coward, he thought.

_Their kiss was chaste at first, inhaling together, that ruddy smell of motor oil and gunsmoke, and his free hand trailed down between his legs, working him with all urgency, and their kiss deepened, their breathing quickening, like boxers hopping from foot to foot before that first punch._

He tripped and fell, and feeling around his fingers closed around the wolf's cold muzzle and, nor far away, spied another pale figure stretched out on the earth.

_And in that vulnerable moment, they would lean their foreheads together and Sam would finally get the confession he had waited for, that Dean had been unfaithful, that John had...but Sam would say it didn't matter. "I'll make you forget."_

"Dean..." he whispered, stumbling to bridge the gap, "Dean!"

_And when it was over, Dean would give a short little laugh and say..._

Nothing.

* * *

><p>"What did you do?"<p>

John glanced up from loading the car. Sam looked utterly savage, his gun level with the old man's eyes.

"What're you talking about?"

"Something's wrong with Dean," Sam said, "I found him in the woods, cold and barely alive, and looking like he'd tried eating a heart. Now," he said, cocking the gun, hoping the bluff worked, "Who could've put that idea in his head?"

John looked away. "It was supposed to help," he said, "We can still-"

"So it _was_ you."

"Sam-"

But he didn't want to hear it. Quick as a snake, Sam struck him on the side of the head. He hit him, over and over, a great bell ringing in his head that his last hope of aiding Dean had failed, and he just wanted someone else to hurt for a little while.

When John stopped moving, Sam stood up, hands shaking, and raised his gun again to point at the old man. It clicked, the smallest sound in the world, and Sam pulled back the hammer, shooting one empty round after another until his eyes began to sting.

He just needed time to fix all this, he told himself as he dumped John into the trunk, _This isn't over,_ he thought, reaching over him a lantern, a carving knife, and a fifth of whiskey.

And slamming the trunk behind him, possibly for the last time, he took a pull off the bottle and began the long climb back.

* * *

><p>By the time he was finished, the sky was beginning to lighten. He wiped the bloody knife on his jeans, spreading out the wolf skin by a little copse where the sunlight would cut thru, and arranged Dean on top so he was on his back.<p>

Pouring whiskey into his shirt, he scrubbed himself, taking extra care with his nails before tending to Dean. He cleaned the boy's face, smoothing back his hair and straightening his clothes. He didn't let himself think about it all, not even for a moment, as if he might startle whatever fragile magic he was working with. After lacing up his boots, he added the last piece, Dean's gun between his folded hands, and Sam stood up to admire his handiwork. Dean would have appreciated his attention to detail.

He wasn't sure how the next bit was supposed to work. But if the monsters were real, then weren't the fairy tale endings?

_They would awaken the next day, the last stars of morning against a desert sky..._

...and Sam took Dean's face in his hands, gently tilting him up...

_...and pressing a soft kiss on his sleeping mouth, he would smile and say..._

"It's time to wake up." he whispered, tears spilling down his cheeks.

He waited a moment, for anything, a flutter of eyelids, a sudden intake of breath. For them to get up and leave, for them to be together in that far away burning plain, for the many happy years this awful universe owed him.

And with a great wracking sob, he lifted his hand, struck him in the face, and shouted, "WAKE UP."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>


	21. The Claiming of Dean Winchester

The gas attendant looked up from his magazine, the door ringing as two boys walked in, one loud and the other nursing a private hurt.

"You locked John in a car trunk?" Dean hissed.

"He'll be fine, there's a safety latch on the inside of that model," said Sam, pulling out his wallet and tapping on the security window, "Pump two please."

"He's gonna kick your ass he ever wakes up, and he'll never take you hunting again," said Dean, picking at a brown stain on Sam's sleeve, "I won't hardly see you."

Sam itched at the ring on his hand, the knuckles scabbed and swollen from brawling.

"Are you out of your mind, picking a fight like that?"

"He ditched you in the woods, he deserved worse."

"No," said Dean, grabbing his shoulder to turn him around, "It's not that, is it?"

Sam shrugged him off. "I gotta pay for gas, grab some water so we can get out of here."

The attendant kept his eyes on the register, quietly tearing off the receipt and watching the boys go on their separate errands. You never offered friendly advice to out-of-towners. They always had guns.

Nervous Willy's Gas Guns and Fireworks was the only store for fifty miles in every direction, offering up all kinds of fare for the lonesome hunter. Out of the need for privacy more than anything else, Dean skulked toward the back of the store, and there, past firewood and slot machines and bags of feed, was the little booth, the available entertainment chastely covered in paper sleeves reading WHITE, BLACK, or LATINO.

He'd had been feeling...sticky the whole way back to town, and Sam wasn't letting on what had happened after he'd passed out last night, and he didn't want to check himself in a crowded men's room.

A mural of the Statue of Liberty crowded the rifle display, her raised hand painted around the emergency light over the fire alarm. Truthfully he should have felt more beat up, but waking up next to Sam, after almost getting killed last night, well, something in that wolf heart must have done the trick. The mountains pushed against his bootheels all the way back to town, out of that wretched wood and sideways into a world of hidden depths, where the sweet summer air sang a love song you only remember when you're drunk.

He felt changed.

Just then a shout rose from the front of the store. "Sammy?" he called out.

A window smashed, and someone took a shot that ricochetted off a fireworks package, sending smokeballs everywhere in a candy-colored cloud. Dean was about to go for his piece when a hand shot out and yanked him into the booth.

"Mff?" he said, a filthy hand clamping over his mouth.

"Ssshhh..."

He looked up, eyes widening at John's bloody face. He'd seen better days, but if he felt any pain he'd stuffed it away, focused on the job again. Raising his gun at the door, an ad for _Kansas Cunt Hunt 7_ leering back at them, he took a steady breath, calm enough for both of them, until their chests rose and fell together, waiting as one man.

"Somebody call Animal Control!" shouted the attendant, "I got this one!"

_No he doesn't_, thought Dean, afraid of what might be out there, even with back-up and more weapons in reach than an NRA calendar girl. More glass was broken, and the attendant began to cough in all the smoke as he reloaded.

"Damn but you're an ugly one." said the attendant, taking another shot.

The smell of John, the contour of his body against his back, made him flush, and he wondered if the old man felt it, his fingers digging protectively into the side of the boy's face.

Dean was about to try and peek over the edge, when he heard the attendant scream something and then pelt toward them, crashing against the booth door.

"No please!"

Dean moved to help, but John kept him close, shaking his head a fraction of an inch. _ Not enough gun for this fight._

The attendant was about to plea bargain until he was struck in the face, a wet pulpy noise like a hammer hitting a soaked head of lettuce, and all his words turned into vowels.

Dean stayed perfectly still, the air growing thick with blue smoke, and he hoped to hell Sam had made it outside. Now that John was close, some of last night was coming back to him, and he wanted to live long enough to explain himself to the kid.

* * *

><p>Sam pressed his hand to Dean's thready heartbeat, like a hungry kid peering in at a window display. He didn't have the strength to carry him down the mountain, and nothing he did could warm or waken him.<p>

He lay down on the wolf coat, wrapping his arms around that sleeping neck, and considered his options. The rangers in town could helicopter Dean to a hospital. Assuming he could find his way back here, that John didn't take tit for tat and shove _him_ in a trunk, and the coyotes didn't snack on Dean in his absence.

The half-eaten heart lay in the leaves nearby, and he mulled over it bitterly. The monks had been right, you could cure a lycanthrope victim that way, but hunting down the original wolf that bit you and getting the heart at all was a rare occurence, and no one knew what happened if a normal person ate one.

Which meant Dean had gone out of his way to prove he was human. To prove to someone.

He kissed the side of Dean's face, the skin blue in the summer heat, and wondered what John had said to convince him.

"Heh...heh...heh..."

Sam looked up. Perched on a prickly branch was the bantam, or what was left of it. The flesh had been stripped away, wattles wobbling on its eyeless skull and wings clicking like folding umbrellas, half-whistling when it spoke.

"Trooo...looove..."

"Leave us alone." Sam whispered, too tired to be angry.

The bird tapped its talons against the tree, surveying his menu options and wondering which would be the least hassle.

"Go away," said Sam, as the bird approached, "There's plenty more the way you came."

But the bird was not interested in stringy old soldiers, and it pecked at his bluejeans, the wolf's blood tacky on his leg. The wolf had been left to rot over night, and was not so tempting a breakfast.

"I don't have anything for you." Sam whispered, to both of them, nose pressed to Dean's hair and wishing he could sleep so easily.

This earned him another thoughtful peck, a black tongue savoring the residual magic the wolf had left. A lycanthrope heart is not just a hunter's prize, it is a great source of power for other creatures, and the bantam knew the boys had it hidden away. Sensing it was near, it lept onto Dean's chest, cocking its head inquisitively.

"Hey, get off!"

It looked up, staring down the length of his gun barrel, or would have if it hadn't eaten it's own eyes. But ghosts didn't need permission.

Opening its mouth, a dark thread floated out, sniffing the air for that precious morsel. Sam stayed his hand, could it know something he didn't?

A tenebrous hand slipped into Dean's mouth, and Sam tensed as the older boy began to sputter, his face turning red around the edges. After an awful minute of silent struggle, he coughed up a string of blood, and the bantam rocked on it's heels, reeling in a sticky lump out of Dean's throat like a toy in a claw machine. Ignoring Sam's whoops of joy, it hopped off the boy to enjoy its catch in the shadow of a honey locust.

"Dean..." he whispered, taking the boy's face in his hands, searching his eyes. Wiping the blood away with his sleeve, he kissed his face, scratching himself on the three day beard, wondering why the hell he was still so cold.

"Come on, say something."

He rolled on top, one hand holding the back of the boy's head as he pressed his mouth to the soft flesh beneath his jaw, his other hand grabbing his waist and tracing a rib with his thumb, smiling when he heard a little intake of breath at his touch. Slowly, he began to get a response, the hands parting to fall at the sides, the gun still gripped instinctually.

"That's it, come back to me."

Sam stripped off his shirt, hands reaching around and flattening against his back, still slack and sleepy. He buried his face in the boy's neck, his mouth wet and needy, eager to go further, but waiting for some gesture of permission. He had worked so hard at setting this scene, flaying the wolf, cleaning the blood, hiding the bodies, just so they could have something nice together, and he wanted some appreciation for his effort.

"I've got everything ready for us," he whispered, "Just like I promised."

He grew hard, the blood stain on his jeans gluing and ungluing like old ductape as he rocked on top, shivering in that cold embrace and desparate to warm it. The boy's lips were soft and yielded to his kiss, and he was afraid no amount of chaste love would revive that sharp tongue. As the haunted bantam had proved, life was an invasive procedure.

Besides, hadn't he been given consent the other day, the last time they'd been together? He could think of no better reunion than to awaken to love on the grave of their antagonist, and breaking their kiss, be began to undress them both.

He was in no hurry, gently pulling his arms from the sleeves, setting the boots next to each other with the laces tucked inside. The sun spilled thru the trees and lit his sleeping face on the earth, bringing out the pinks atop the eyelids.

Sam ran his hands along the black carpet beneath them, mouth watering at the glowing Adonis framed against it. This was the real victory, to literally take comfort from their enemy, and, for Sam at least, to finally close the door on his dirty little habit.

Dean would have done more for preparation. But he thought back to their first time, his impatience to get going, and remembered wanting to be held more than the promise of any sleight of hand. And spitting into his hand, he readied himself and leaned over, hooking his arms around the knees for balance.

He held his breath once he was all the way in, biting down to keep control. It felt amazing, not like any woman, and all the more agreeable since it was what he'd desired back when he'd propositioned the boy in the grimy hotel room months ago. He pulled back, shuddering as his cock threatened to surrender to that crushing heat. He pushed again, all the way to the hilt, grinding his hips and softly lifting them both off the ground, blushing as he closed his eyes and tried to stay on task.

He leaned forward, and though he did not get kissed back, the rest of the body closed down on him, and he moaned into that sleeping mouth like he'd stepped into a bear trap.

"Aw fuck..." he whispered in his ear, "I'm right here, can you feel me?"

He took another experimental pull, dizzy with delight. They would both need time to get used to each other, and he kept up this slow dance for as long as he dared, honored to be the first and eager to do it right. He wanted to make an impression, so that in the lonely weeks ahead when they wouldn't have an opportunity together, this would be the first memory Dean would draw on in his solitary times of need.

It was odd having a silent partner, but it let him focus, to last longer, and really all he needed was that first clench to know he was doing the right thing.

The sweat rolled down his back in his effort. He blotted out anything that might bring him too close, and took it from moment to moment, like a machine, like waves breaking on a cliff. He was just a tool in building a man back to life.

* * *

><p>Dean was dreaming. He must have been, this couldn't be real.<p>

He was so tired, and when he felt hands reaching around him, he was happy to give up control, turn off his brain. Let someone else do the thinking. Fuck's sake, he's just killed a wolf with his hands tied behind his back, he deserved some gentle treatment.

And then he was naked, the breeze skating across his bare skin, and a shadow pressed their hands against the inside of his knees. He would have questioned it, the soft, wordless manner in which he was taken, without warning or preamble, except that he'd had this same dream a thousand times, and when they fit together, the pain surprised him into near-waking, and he knew he'd gotten his wish.

_Finally_. They had been waiting for each other, denying themselves of those who didn't make the cut. He'd completed the mission and now he was to be rewarded. It's what he'd always wanted, to prove he'd been a good and faithful lieutenant, to offer himself as something to be enjoyed, tasted and appreciated and swallowed like an eighteen year bourbon.

He closed down on him, to prove there'd been no one else, that the privelage was his alone. Who could have competed? They were made for each other, horse and rider, gun and hand. The pain was a little distracting, but then his cock was taken in a light grip, working it with a practiced slide, and he could feel it coming, now he would be broken in, now they would be bound, like two burning candles melting into each other.

* * *

><p>Sam sped up, feeling Dean's heart beneath his. They were both very close, and he took long, careful strokes to prolong it, the creature in his hand swelling in anticipation. The boy was still sleeping beneath him, eyes closed on some feverish dream, but his mouth was wrapped around a name. He arched his back, the end was near.<p>

Sam didn't want to finish, not yet, he wanted to be available for more should he be wanted, and concentrated on staying hard for his love.

He leaned close, hungry for any little confession that might escape.

"...I waited so long..."

Sam smiled.

"...I've been wanting this..."

His heart turned to water, happiness blooming in his chest, and he knew he wouldn't last now. He went faster, harder, and when his climax soured on the final word, it was oddly made more satisfying because he had claimed it from someone else.

"...John."

* * *

><p>Back in the video booth, John and Dean held their breath, listening as the the attendant was stripped and dangled upside down, his ankles held apart like a wishbone under the Statue of Liberty's unfeeling gaze. A shadow circled him, splitting in half so that one end went down his mouth, the other somewhere further down.<p>

"...ugh...don't..." the attendant gasped, regaining consciousness.

Dean squirmed under John's grip, desperate to escape as the man's insides were twisted, his screams an inhuman gargle. Looking down thru the smoke, blood began to seep across the linoleum, down down under the crack of the booth door, and Dean tried to back away from it, flattening himself against John. Some things can't be washed out.

The wolf looked up at them, a rictus grin on it's flayed face.

"Trooooo looooove."


	22. Cowboy Romance

**Note to readers: Slight AU on how ghosts react to iron, basically you can trap them in their host by using iron objects (such as chains) and then destroy them by killing the host.**

* * *

><p>Dean lowered his gun, ears ringing in that small space, and waited for the wolf to round the corner for a second strike. When none came, John pushed open the booth door, frowning at the attendant like a broken lamp that needed sweeping.<p>

The man had managed to move a few feet, down on all fours with his insides all jumbled like a pinata, waiting to die. Dean felt ashamed for him, and stepped over the blood to pick him up.

John grabbed his hand, pointing the gun away. "What're you doing?" he whispered.

"Dispatching the poor bastard." said Dean, his voice a little high at the old man's touch.

John leaned in, suddenly a greater priority than the thing getting blood on his boots. "He'll do that in his own time," he said, eyes flicking to the rifle display, "You need to get ready for this fight."

"Me? We're both in this."

But then he noticed John's stillness, how he favored one leg, eyes half-lidded as if daring Dean to comment on this weakness.

"The ghost feels pain, but it won't take long to recover," John said, plucking a shoulder holster from a nearby shelf, "You need to do a lot of damage and keep it down."

"How do we know it won't switch horses before that happens?" said Dean, "For all we know he's out there looking for a new ride."

"Not with iron he won't," said John, dropping a spool of black chain onto the counter, "Put him on a leash and he won't get far."

Dean glanced out the window, grinding his teeth at the lack of movement in the parking lot.

"Sam's fine," said John, "We would have heard something."

He lifted Dean's arms, buckling a utility belt around his waist heavy with buckshot. A double-barrel across his back, a matching set of 9mms, and a smaller gun strapped to his thigh. They did not speak as John filled the holsters, puzzle pieces Dean hadn't known he was missing until now.

Afterwards he turned Dean to face him, straightening his shirt for him. Dean took his hand, his eyes stinging at all the attention.

"Stop."

John smiled. "Want you to make a good impression."

"I'm coming back you know."

"For what," he asked, the smile still there, but not in his voice, "To fuck up some more?"

Dean flinched as if struck, though the question had been sincere. "I didn't have anything to do with Sam coming to fight you..."

"And it never occurred to you to check and see if I had survived a beating that's gonna leave me laid up for a month?"

Dean had the good grace to look ashamed.

"Yeah, you're the type. You'd rather have the demon host in your crosshairs than face my low opinion," he said, his lip curling, "Between your fear and Sam's pride it'll bring us all to an early grave."

"...you mad at me?"

"I think you know," said John dully, plucking a knife off the wall to strap to Dean's leg, "But I also want you to use your good sense. You're no use to anyone running scared in my shadow, and right now Sam needs a handler more than I need a coward."

Dean opened his mouth, but thought better of it, blinking hard. "...Yes, sir."

John inspected him, and satisfied with his choice of gear, he leaned against the counter to relieve the bad leg. "I swear," he said to no one really, "You two are in each other like a sickness."

"You had a hand in that." he said quietly, taking a step closer.

"I never should have left you in the woods last night," John said, looking down as the boy reached around his waist, "If I knew now-"

Their kiss was easy, faces tilting in a quarter turn, the curved length of their bodies like two trees bending in the wind. As if they were not beyond repair, as if to say that, in another life, this would not have been a difficult love.

Dean pressed his hand to the old man's cheek, smoothing away the lines around his mouth. When had he gotten so old?

John nodded, though his eyes slid away. "All our good days are behind us, aren't they?"

"There never were any good days."

John glanced down the length of the store to the exit. "Then go make some."

"John..."

"Go. You stay and I got nothing to repay you with in this business but a barrel-full of misery and a half egg cup of glory," he said softly, "I'm not so heartless."

A denial caught in Dean's throat, and he leaned in again, but the old man's face went cold. The boy had been dealt out of this game.

He let his hand linger a moment, and then ducking his head he turned his back and began to walk away.

"I have to go to Sammy," he said, slurring the words, afraid his voice would give him away, "He gets that wolf to himself, lord only knows the trouble he'll get into."

A hard glitter lit in John's eyes. "Be careful," he said, "Come a day when he'll run to it rather than to you."

"Oh that don't matter to me," said Dean, pumping the shotgun, "So long as I can shoot it when he's done."

* * *

><p>Sam walked away from the gas station window, hands clutching his hair. John and Dean's voices had been too low to hear, and he was too young to recognize a goodbye kiss. A dull ache filled him now that his suspicions were confirmed, and it warranted something more productive than tears.<p>

A woman, another victim of the wolf, sat against the gas pump, one leg tucked under the other, a hand clutching her hair like a pin-up model. All the blood had gone from her face, so that her make-up glared against it. She followed him with her eyes, blood spilling out the sides of her mouth to make a red necklace.

He reached behind his shirt and showed her the gun. "It's over," he said, his shadow covering her face, "You can sleep now." She gave a kind of sigh as he pressed the barrel to her forehead, a goodnight kiss, and he wished he could share her relief. The shot rolled away and bounced off the hills, and she closed her eyes, opened them again, and stayed open.

They stared at each other a while. He searched himself for feelings of regret, but found none.

A burst of gunfire rattled the windowglass, wood splintering as something huge scrambled on the roof. A spray of blood, and a monstrous weight crashed into the weeds a few yards from where Sam stood. Leaning over to pick up the spent shell, stuffing it in his pocket for luck, he wrapped his hands around gun, and stepped carefully to the thing panting in the shadows. A pair of eyes flashed at him thru the tall grass.

"Oh," Sam said, suddenly alive with anticipation, "I'm going to enjoy you."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>


	23. Cry Wolf

**Note to readers who haven't read the last 50,000 words: **

To sum up the soap opera, Sam (age 15) bangs monsters (and in fact has this grand fantasy of being screwed to death by a monster), Dean (age 18) has a hot-for-teacher crush on John that makes Sam insanely jealous. Right now there's a lycanthrope that's been possessed by a hungry ghost that enjoys tearing out people's guts through the most convenient orifice (sometimes two at once). Ya know, for fun.

* * *

><p>The ground crunched beneath Dean's boots, rocking chairs creaking as he rounded the front porch with a shotgun balanced against his shoulder. A pair of grandmothers, as alike as two wads of bread dough, listed in the breeze with a lapful of gore, their eyes as sightless as marbles. Behind a chain-link fence, headlights reflected the sun, a line of junkers hunched on squares of bald earth like scavengers.<p>

A low bass rattle, like a distant idling engine, and Dean squinted thru the crosshairs. John was right, it was far easier to hunt than look the old man in the eye these days.

He backed up against the wall, gun aimed at the sky, and listened for movement. The wolf was not alone, and he pricked his ears for the second voice.

"...hold...still..."

_Sammy?_ he thought.

He turned the corner, right as Sam feinted left and laid a walloping punch into the wolf's jaw, knocking it off balance enough to sweep an ankle. The ghost inside it had forgotten how to act like an animal, much less a soldier, and left itself open. This was no fair fight.

Kicking it onto it's stomach, Sam knelt behind to take a paw in each of his hands, crossing them behind the wolf's back until it snapped it's teeth at him, to no effect. He leaned over it, their bodies nestled at right angles, and their intimacy struck a black chord in Dean. John's cutting title of "handler" had revealed a sense of ownership he hadn't realized he possessed.

He had never seen Sam with another creature. Every other man he'd known distorted under the pressure of war, barely human, but Sam...

Sam was transfigured. His hair gathered all the light, glinting as he turned his head to whisper in it's ear, as if they shared a secret. Nothing moving in Sam's face save for a wisp of hair in the wind, his whole body red and wet with blood, none of it his. When the wolf did not answer his question, he turned it's arm til it howled against his mouth. Dean's heart raced.

In the tall grass, a dozen pair of eyes glowed, yipping in a call and response. A cub lay bleeding nearby, but the pack bided it's time. If they were lucky, the boy would avenge their child for them.

Sam heard him approach, but did not look up from his charge. The wolf's strength would return in time, but for now he had the situation under control.

"Need a few minutes darlin'," he whispered, reaching beside the wolf for a tire iron, "Keep it warm for me."

And lifting his arm over his head, he struck it in the back of the head, three smart raps that left it quiet but not finished.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, as Sam carried the load toward the gaping trunk of a police car, the original owner on the ground, curled up around his own guts like a meat corsage, and he shut the lid with the heels of his hand, fanning his fingers against the stinging heat of the metal.

Sam kept his back to him, inspecting his reflection in the window. One side of his head was matted with blood, and he ran his fingers thru it, softly curling a lock behind his ear. He was surprised at how steady his hands were.

Dean lowered his shotgun. "Sam..." he said, placing a hand on the kid's shoulder. Even slick with blood Sam caught a hold of him easily, twisting his wrist until he dropped the gun. A brief tustle, and Dean had his back to him, his right arm wrenched behind at an unnatural angle.

"Sam what the fuck-"

His face crashed onto the top of the trunk, the metal burning him, all the breath knocked out.

"We don't have a lot of time," said Sam, one knee pressed between Dean's parted legs in a gesture both gentle and obscene, "It's already beginning to wake."

Softly, Dean felt the wolf growling, vibrating thru the cage of the car like a church organ.

"Man I'm gone half an hour and you already got a new dance partner," rasped Dean with a half grin, "I not good enough for ya?"

Sam leaned in. "I could ask you the same thing."

"Whatever you saw," he said, the smell of John still on him, "It ain't how it looked."

That earned him a knock to the head, and stars exploded behind his eyes.

"I used to hesitate before killing another living creature, but now...it's easy," he said, making an L with his hand and jabbing it into Dean's temple, "Like pointing a finger."

Dean understood. The mystery of love turned a Little Death into the killer currently molesting him in an armlock.

"You sound pretty eager to die yourself."

"You know the difference between sex with monsters and you?"

Dean frowned in consideration. "I got personality?"

Something scratched at the inch of steel separating him from the prisoner beneath, and he flinched, sarcasm faltering.

"They keep me focused on the job. You, I...I can't think straight when I'm with you. And after what I just saw back there," he said, voice cracking, "You _have_ to die."

Sam's body was feverish against him, hard and ready for trouble, and Dean's mind raced as to how he could get past this madness before the wolf emerged.

"You saw the old women on the porch?" Sam asked, eyes sparking like a catherine wheel, "The ghost got them both at the same time. Just reached down inside and..." His nails dug into Dean's arm, and setting his teeth on his ear he could picture that dark embrace. There would be no crash with this one, no great climax only to end with a rush of cold air and feeling...less. They would end as equals, conjoined, his mouth filling with the boy's warm blood.

Dean twisted his head around. "Ya know they _sell_ double headers, I can go to the back of the store right now-"

That earned him a knock to the ear, and he shut up, blood tickling the side of his face.

"Those women..." Dean panted, "That ain't us."

"At least they didn't die alone" Sam hissed, the memory of John's goodbye kiss burning his eyes til he thought he'd go blind, "Fuck, every time we get away from each other it all goes wrong. I don't want to think what'll happen the next time."

The steel buckled and warped beneath Dean, but Sam weighed him down, burying his face in his neck. A row of black claws pierced the trunk inches from Dean's face, hooking inward and bowing the steel like a rubber sheet, and Sam hardened as the older boy twisted in revulsion

"Please. It's a good death," Sam whispered, knees shaking with a strange desire as the car rocked beneath, "Share it with me."

"Sorry baby boy," he said smiling, "I don't share. Not you, or me."

Sam eased up a little. "What?"

"I cut him off," Dean lied, "John won't come knocking again."

"You're lying."

"Yeah, but it comes to the same thing don't it?" he said, "I know you, and this, this ain't you. Some day you're gonna die a hero's death, and..."

Dean closed his eyes, sealing his fate on John's words. _Sam needs a handler more than I need a coward._

"...and I'll be the one to see you get there." he finished.

Metal split as the wolf heaved it's weight to the side, enough of an opening that Dean could smell it, a hot mix of flint-iron and charnel houses.

"You know what I need," Dean said, as his bravado cooled and John's rejection curdled in his gut, the old loneliness setting roots again, "Let me make this kill. Afterwards...whatever you want..."

Sam was at a loss for words. Dean's previous offers had always been a case of Permission instead of Submission,_ I'll let you_ instead of_ I need you_. His hesitation gave Dean enough of an edge to twist away from him right as a fanged snout emerged where his head had been moments ago.

"Get in the car." said Dean, reaching for a handgun.

"What-?"

"We gotta get this thing closer to the woods if we're gonna keep it down." he said, emptying the clip into the trunk, blood spraying out like a popped balloon.

"Tell me you got a plan." said Sam as he searched the dead policeman for the car keys.

"Well you tell me, how does a wolf hunt?" asked Dean as he lept into the passenger seat, the empty magazine falling into the weeds.

Sam started the engine, his voice even as he changed gears to work mode. "In a pack."

Dean smiled. "You think our friends there wanna join us for dinner?"

Sam looked out the side window, tracking the faint movement in the tall grass. "The coyotes. They smelled all the bodies in the parking lot."

"How much you wanna bet that they've been wanting to take down Scooby Doo over here?"

Sam looked down at the dead cub, an older sibling licking it's fur while the others looked on murderously. "I wouldn't take that bet."

"Then get driving," he said, "This place is popular, last thing we need are more innocent bystanders."

_Or for anything more to happen to John. _ he thought, noticing the web of scars on the back of Sam's right hand.

The road was abandoned, and as they passed a park sign it became a gravel path, tree branches curving overhead so thick that it was impossible to know which direction the sun was going. Sam's knuckles were white against the steering wheel, unable to pick apart the growl of the motor from the wolf in the trunk, and wondering if he were imagining it.

"You think you killed it?" Sam whispered, easing off the gas.

"Don't stop the car." Dean replied, reaching in his pack for a length of iron chain, "Might take some time, but when it recovers I need you to-"

The windshield exploded inwards. Sam screamed as claws lashed out at him, the car swerving wildly off the path.

"Stay on the road!" Dean shouted, swinging the chain in a loop. But the wolf snagged his wrist, cutting a twin line of red down the back of his arm, and the chain slid out the window into the pinestraw.

"Dean!"

"I got it!" he said, pulling out the other handgun and leveling it against an eye socket. A chunk of bone flew away, enough so that the wolf retreated to the roof.

"Fuck what do we do?" Sam asked, straightening out back onto the road.

Dean clutched his hair, head turning this way and that as he searched the police car for iron. He winced as his hand came away with dried blood, and the answer came to him. "Sammy where's that tire iron?"

"What?"

"You brought it with you?"

"Behind the seat, what the hell you gonna do?" he asked, turning his head for a split second to read Dean's face.

"Stay close to the door." he said, rolling down the passenger window.

"What, in case I need to jump out?" Sam asked, eyes widening as he watched Dean climb onto the roof, "Dean, wait!"

The wind tangled the hair on his head as Dean grabbed the edge with his free hand, the tire iron hanging on his belt, knocking his thigh as the car bounced along. The wolf lay on it's back cradling the head wound.

Dean stood over it, a boot on either side, and waited for a look of recognition. He gave a wicked smile, tire iron tapping against his open palm like a police truncheon.

"Miss me?"

Lips split over a red horror of fangs, and it lunged at him, slow enough for Dean to get in a hit that he was gonna feel in his shoulder for the next week. But the pain could wait, and he wrapped both hands around the snout, muzzling it as he gave a few swift kicks to the ribs. As he fell to his knees, pinning it under his weight, he gave himself a moment to appreciate the kind of rush Sam must get tackling Evil Tail, and aimed the iron over the wolf's chest, point down, before his dick could get any ideas.

Back in the driver's seat, Sam listened to the fight with bated breath, almost crashing into a fence when the tire iron pierced the ceiling inches from his shoulder. He barely made out Dean's voice above all the howling.

"He's...mine," he hissed, "You forget that and I'll throw you into Hell myself."

Sam swallowed, two feet of black metal shuddering beside him as the wolf thrashed.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Stop the car."

Sam looked into the rearview mirror, as the dark figures raced toward them. "Oh shit."

"Yeah," said Dean, hopping onto the ground, "Get in the back."

The boys scrambled into the backseat, dropping the partition and caging themselves in, seconds before a wave of snarls and barks rocked the car on all sides.

"Dean-" said Sam, grabbing his hand. All they could do was wait out the pack, praying they could do enough damage and take down the wolf for them. They looked at each, wide-eyed and pale with fear.

"Dean, if we don't make this, I'm sorry-"

Dean grabbed his shirt, pressing his mouth to his so hard they could hardly breath. "Now," he said, barely heard over the noise, "Take me now."

"What-?"

"I saw you out in the yard with that creature," he said, "And I thought to myself I never seen nothin' so good in my life."

"I-"

"Dammit stop acting like you don't know what I need, I..."

And then it clicked for Sam. They were going to live. The kill has been a success. Dean wanted to be rewarded for his work, and John was out of the picture. The agony of the dying wolf sent chills down his spine, making him ache all over, and he ran a hand over Dean's face.

"...turn around." he whispered.

Dean's fingers skated along the boy's ribs under the bloody jacket, but Sam took his hands, they were to stay dressed. He knew the guns were important to Dean, as the ring was to him, and he kept a tight grip on his wrists as he turned him around in the seat, pinning his wrists together from behind in an eerie facsimile of his fight with the wolf.

The coyotes made a meal of the wolf, tearing off strips of flesh like a fourth of July pig pull, and for all it's power it could not free itself from the iron speared where it's heart used to be, it's claws scrabbling uselessly.

Sam undid their belts, uncovering them as much as needed, and pressed against him, already hard and wet with clear slick, and leaned against his ear. "Say my name."

"Sam..."

"Remember that." he said, driving into him.

He was not well used, even after their time this morning. But Sam could not fail now, and he grit his teeth and rolled his eyes heavenwards, wondering if the wolf could feel his eyes on it.

Dean's chest heaved, mouth fogging the vinyl sticking to his cheek. He could have pulled his hands away, even with the wound along one arm, but he needed to be used, to have that wooden leg scraping inside of him, and his aching cock would wait until told otherwise.

Sam kept up a rock steady rhythm, hair falling in his eyes dripping sweat, and he shook it out of his face. Even if he did this for hours, he didn't think he could get used to it, the hot tight clutch on his cock, the misery between Dean's legs that waited for Sam's touch. But the wolf would not last so long, as was evidenced by the amount of meat and bone tossed off the top of the car, and he wanted them all to finish together.

"You feel amazing, I could do this all day." he said, as the older boy's spine dipped into a saddle, his shirt sticky with sweat. "I have to know," Sam whispered in his ear, the boy at his mercy and bound to tell the truth, "Did John have you?"

"No," he rasped, "There's no one."

"Don't lie to me." he hissed dangerously.

"I swear."

Up top, the wolf was losing the fight, and soon there would not be enough of a vessel to contain the ghost.

"Please..."

Sam pressed his forehead to Dean's shoulder, freeing a hand. And running his fingers along the curve of the boy's waist, he the searched the wiry hairs til he found what they both wanted.

The response was crushing, and he had to slow down, take a measured, frustrating pace to prevent himself from getting carried away. But Sam knew it wasn't enough, not to make any kind of impression on Dean. Dean had been scared of John for years, and that fear had been the engine driving his desire for the old man. It had to be part of the mix for this love to work.

"Put your hands on the window." Sam whispered.

"What?"

"Trust me."

Dean did as he was told, flattening his palms against the glass. He wouldn't last long in the kid's capable hand, and was happy to give up control of the whole operation.

And then a claw the size of a dinner plate struck the window, spider-webbing the glass, and his desire flat-lined. Howls rent the air as a dark slurry began to run down the side windows, and the inside of the car was bathed in a red glow.

"Don't take your hands away." Sam said, the car's suspension creaking as he picked up speed.

Dean let out a ragged breath, the coyotes deafening in that small space. A scream fought it's way to the surface, but died as the familiar heat took it's place, and the boys were back to where they started. Another window cracked, this time behind Sam. The wolf was nearly down to bones, and the coyotes began to gather around the car, mouths full of twitching, sentient flesh.

"Don't look at it," he said, turning Dean's face away, "Focus."

But Dean was frozen, unable to ignore the violence hanging over their heads.

"Stay with me..." Sam whispered, twisting his fingers in the boy's hair, pulling him back for a bite behind the ear that made him clamp down so hard Sam thought he would pass out.

The parking brake threatened to give out as the car rocked forward, and after much struggling the tire iron wriggled in the air and then yanked free from the roof.

"It's on the move," said Dean, heady from the alternating high and crash of love and sudden death, "It might get us."

"I know." he whispered, pressing his mouth to his.

"Please, finish me," he begged, "No more, I can't take it."

_No more monsters_, Sam swore to himself, the wolf's protests bringing them both to the edge, _No one else for either of us._

If a man's love is like fire, striking a flint over and over and blowing on it until a flame happens or doesn't happen, a monster's love is like a dam. The water level ebbing and rising like a tide, desire leavened with fear, until the boys could hold no more, not ending with a sharp break in the wall but rather flowing over the edge in an wide wash of noise.

And with a final wrench, the coyotes tore out the wolf's throat, the ghost bursting from between it's teeth like a cloud of flies.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	24. Naked Carwash

**Note to readers:** Return of Boobs and Braceface as the voyeurs de jour! Music cue later on, Chuck Berry's "C'est La Vie", great song if you don't know it already.

I may add an extra chapter or two for closure, but this is essentially the end. Comment if you want the story to continue and I'll be happy to write more.

This chapter also wins for campiest ending one-liner that I swore would never see the light of day.

* * *

><p>Braceface let the $5 CARWASH sign sag, huffing out her breath at the deserted highway and wondering if anybody was gonna stop, when her cell phone went off.<p>

"Hey you."

"When you gonna be done?" asked Boobs.

"Mom's gonna pick me up at five, so I gotta stick around here til then."

"That sucks."

"Yeah, I wish you could keep me company," said Braceface, kicking a bucket of suds, "This place is dead."

"Well I'm grounded til I'm forty, dad found out about the phone company hack. I dunno why he's bitching, I got his last month's bill down to a dollar," she said, looking around to make sure she wasn't heard, "But hey you're getting a great tan."

Braceface ran her thumb under the tube top, her bee-sting beasts as pale as turkey meat. "I should just go completely naked, no one's driven past here in two hours."

"You TOTALLY should," screeched Boob, "Holy crap, that's brilliant, naked carwash!"

"Ha this is awesome!" she said, putting down the sign to untie her sarong skirt, phone cradled between ear and shoulder.

"I wish I could be there to see their faces, you're gonna make so much money!"

"Hold on, I need music, I got the _Pulp Fiction_ soundtrack in the stereo." she said, dropping her panties and fast forwarding the CD to her favorite track.

"Are you naked?"

Braceface peeled off her tube top. "Am now."

"Babe you are SICK!"

Braceface's jaw dropped. "Call you later, someone's coming." she said, laying the phone on the stereo. The sign was just big enough to cover her pink parts, and she flashed a toothy, nervous grin as Chuck Berry began to sing.

_"It was a teenage wedding and the old folks wished 'em well..."_

Her smile faded. "What's wrong with their car?" she whispered as the mangled police cruiser rattled to a halt.

Dean stepped out of the driver's seat, looking her up and down so that she hunched behind the sign. "Aren't you cold?" he asked.

"Uumm..."

"Dean, we can't stop here," said Sam, his head poking out the window, "I can't find the tracking device on this thing, let's just ditch it in the woods and head back."

Dean held up a finger and walked over to Braceface, her eyes widening as she counted all the guns strapped to him. "How much for a carwash?" he asked, pulling out his wallet.

Too scared to speak, she pointed to the sign.

"Tell ya what," he said, holding her gaze as he pressed his thumb to his tongue, separating out some bills, "Get yourself something nice."

She was about to say no, when Sam stepped out, covered in blood, and she snatched the money from his fingers. "All yours," she said, bending down behind the sign to grab her clothes and phone, "Anyone asks, I didn't see you."

He winked, picking up the bucket and turning away, right as Sam began to whine, "Dean we have to go NOW-".

She didn't look back at Sam's reaction to a face-full of soap, wrapping the cardboard sign around her torso in an improvised toga as she hit re-dial.

"I'm walking to your house right now."

"You nuts?" said Boobs, "That's, like, a mile."

* * *

><p>The two girls returned to the car wash at night, the police car abandoned and the boys nowhere to be found.<p>

Boobs put out a tentative finger. "There's so much blood," she said, incredulous as she drew a line on the filthy driver-side window, "You're lucky they didn't get you too."

"Hey, you think this thing has a video camera?" asked Braceface, "I saw it on TV once, cops have to have it installed to like, make sure they don't go Rodney King?"

"It would all be downloaded to the city server, the disk wouldn't be here on the car," she said, the seats showered with broken glass, "Assuming the hardware still works at all."

"You think you could hack into the server?"

Boobs considered it, staring at the claw marks on the roof. "Worth a shot."

* * *

><p>"Are we in?" asked Braceface.<p>

Boobs typed in a command, and let out her breath. "Got it. Around three o'clock today?"

"Yeah."

"Live and in living color." she said, hitting enter and leaning back in her chair.

* * *

><p>"-frickin' radio station in this hick town?" asked Dean, mashing several buttons on the dashboard. Trees zipped past on either side of the two-lane road, a cloudless sky framed by fluttering bits of windshield as the cruiser sucked down lane markers.<p>

"It's probably broken," said Sam, the wind hissing over the microphone, "How do you wash blood out of a cotton shirt?"

"Soak it in kerosene."

"And then wash it?"

"And then set it on fire," said Dean, "No way am I touching you again with those clothes, you are_ eye-watering_."

"I saw a farm nearby, maybe we can sneak in the back and use their hose."

Braceface appeared onscreen, a sliver of a girl behind her sign. "Hey look, naked carwash."

"What, don't pull over, she'll see us!" Sam said, "The cops've got be all over that gas station by now!"

"Relax." said Dean, stepping out of the car.

"Dean, we can't stop here," said Sam, his head poking out the window, "I can't find the tracking device on this thing, let's just ditch it in the woods and head back."

Sam stepped out of the car, a tinny stereo playing in the background. She took one look at him, grabbed a fistful of dollars from Dean, and ran off before she could get dressed. The stereo wailed.

_"They bought a souped-up jitney, 'twas a cherry red '53..."_

"Dean we have to go NOW-"

The soap splashed over him and into the car, briefly obscuring the camera lens as Sam spit out a mouthful of foam. Dean laughed, arm pressed against his mouth as he bent over the bucket, the water dripping white and pink off of Sam's jacket sleeves.

"What the hell was that?"

"Now you smell better," said Dean, stepping forward, "Not that I can say the same about your clothes."

He grabbed his hair, twisting Sam's face up to his until their foreheads knocked against each other, and Sam's mouth dropped open. "Is she gone?" he asked, leaning in a little to catch Dean's mouth. He looped his arms around the older boy's neck, parting his lips in an open kiss, suddenly hard and eager.

"Yeah, probably, why?"

Sam smiled, and tore off his shirt, his lanky, flat-muscled cheat gleaming in the afternoon sun. Dean happily obliged, unsnapping the gun holsters from his chest, wrapping his own shirt around his arm and brushing away the broken glass.

"You're hurt." he said, inspecting the cut on Dean's arm.

"Ain't that hurt." he said, sliding a soapy hand down Sam's spine, hooking a finger into his belt loop to draw him close for another kiss. He undid his belt for him, dropping his pants.

"Wait I gotta get my boots." said Sam, bending over his laces, "Crap, these things are a mess, I'm gonna have to cut these-"

Dean rolled his eyes and lifted the boy onto the hood of the car, hair fanning as he slammed onto his back. "Dean, what are you-"

The older boy popped up between his legs, penned in by the pants around Sam's ankles. "The boots can wait." he said, water dripping down his sunburnt shoulders as they pressed against each other.

They kissed, Sam reaching down to soap up Dean, working him slowly, thoroughly until his cock was long and hard, his breath getting ragged. "That didn't take long." Sam said knowingly, releasing him to stretch his arms behind his head, his hips swiveling in invitation, "Wanna let me drive?"

Their cocks rubbed together, the slippery friction driving Dean wild. "Baby boy you gotta let me earn that, else I won't ever get out of bed."

Sam's eyes narrowed, warm with the power he had over the older boy now. "How soon you wanna make another kill?"

"Soon as you want it," he said, running his hands against the back of his thighs, "But later, for now..."

Sam tipped his head back, crying out as he was taken.

"Fuck don't go so slow." Sam whispered, heels digging into Dean's back, reaching for his face, "Come 'ere."

Little beads of glass shivered atop the hood in time with them, slamming against the hot engine block with more force than their usual coupling.

"I'm sorry, about what I said earlier," said Sam between kisses, "I saw you with John and I...I thought I'd lose my mind."

"It's not your fault," he said, "Just...don't ever leave me, promise me that."

Sam brows twisted. "What are you talking about?"

Dean buried his face in his neck, salty with sweat, searching for the warm flesh below his jaw, "When you're older, I mean I can't make you stay..."

"Don't talk like that," said Sam, bringing his face up, "Why would I ever leave you?"

"So don't leave." he said, wrapping one arm behind the boy's shoulders, while the other hand went elsewhere, and soon they were moaning like doves, happy to have survived the job.

Sam laughed. "Fuck, it must be all that running scared that makes you so good."

"How do you know when any time ain't our last? That you ain't gonna strand me for another spook?"

Sam smiled, hair stuck to his neck, cheeks flushed. "Cuz you're gonna kill it for me."

"Yeah that's right I am." he said, kissing him as he worked them both to the edge, hand running the length of him, pumping into him like a machine.

Sam twisted beneath him, eyes catching the security camera. "Please, I'm so close, please harder."

"Say it," he said, head down, the car rocking beneath them, "What happens if I catch you with another creature?"

"You'll kill it for me baby," he said, staring right at the lens and giving it the most delicious smile, "Kill it for me real good."


	25. Dumpster Porn

Sam and Dean pushed open the hospital doors into the blinding afternoon sun, dropping onto the bus bench. John would recover, but the doctors insisted on keeping him for a couple of days, and the boys were on strict orders to lay low.

"S'posed to be a lot of rain this weekend," said Sam, his fingers inches from Dean's thigh and itching to close the gap, "Not much we could hunt, even with the truck."

Dean ran his hands thru his hair. "I'm gonna go crazy stuck in that hotel."

Sam bit his lip, turning to practical matters. "How much we got?"

Dean stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking over at a snack machine as he counted the change. "You got anything on you?"

Sam shook his head. "We got food at the hotel though."

"We got tap water and a box of noodles," said Dean, stuffing the change back, "That ain't food."

"I could steal us some ketchup packets, water it down for spaghetti sauce." said Sam, his hand creeping onto Dean's leg. He had a fifth of whiskey secreted away, and was eager to get Dean alone with it behind a locked door. "It's almost Italian."

"Think I'll stick with the tap water," said Dean, distracted as he noticed the local newspaper, "Hey check this out."

"What is it?" he asked, putting his hand back in his lap, his heel tapping impatiently on the concrete as he stared at Dean's back.

Dean pressed a finger to the glass. "Storm hit north of here in Crabbe County, the whole town's in a blackout," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face as he read on, "Holy crap. Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

Dean licked his lower lip, contemplating a bad idea. "Wanna make a lot of money?"

* * *

><p>"Dean, I think this is a really bad idea."<p>

"Shut up and hold the bag open."

Sam craned his neck to check for the cop on duty, a duffle bag gaping between his hands as Dean stumbled inside a gas station dumpster with a flashlight.

"Find anything?" asked Sam.

Dean swung the light in his face. "I would if you've let me work."

Sam shielded his eyes with one hand. "All I see are a bunch of old phonebooks, what are we supposed to-"

"Ah ha!" shouted Dean, pushing some litter aside, "Ding ding we have a winner!"

"Come on Dean," Sam asked, wrinkling his nose, "Ahat are we, hobos now?"

"We are geniuses is what we are now." said Dean, a damp pile of magazines resting against his chest.

"What's that?"

Dean dropped them into the duffle thru the little hatchway, half-clad women in a variety of poses scattering across the bottom as they landed.

"_Ma'am Quarterly_?" Sam asked.

"It's for dirty old men," said Dean, continueing to forage, "Like, if you're into piano teachers with whips?"

Sam set the bag down, turning to a page at random. Seated on a lace-covered bench, a blonde old enough to be a Mavis or a Gerty played the piano with her cantaloupe breasts. "People buy this?"

"Naw, they just swipe a copy on their way to the john, s'why you find so many copies in the garbage."

Sam held out the magazine with thumb and forefinger. "Dean, no one's gonna buy this from us."

"Says the kid spoiled by years of a solid internet connection. Ain't you heard about Crabbe County?"

"Should I?"

"Was all over the news last summer," said Dean, "Syphilis outbreak. And not a bunch of trailer trash, I mean nice, clean-cut upper middle class white kids. Hundreds of 'em. The town got scared, and ever since they'd had everything to keep kids from gettin' laid."

"I heard about that," Sam admitted, "They passed this crazy curfew system, no liquor stores, no driving without supervision-"

"-and _absolutely_ no porn," said Dean, horror-struck at the notion, "We'll be heroes."

"It smells like pee in there." said Sam, earning him a pine-shaped air freshener in the face.

"Trust me," he said, leaping out of the dumpster, dropping more magazines into the bag, "When the power goes out, the man with print pornography holds all the cards. We're gonna live like kings."

"And then we go back to the hotel?" asked Sam, looking up hopefully.

Dean placed a finger under the kid's chin, tilting him up and smiling. "You're in a hurry."

Sam blushed. "N-no, I just-"

"What's in the hotel room that I can't wait for?" he asked, grabbing Sam's hips and walking them backwards until Dean had his back to the chainlink fence.

"It's nothing, it's just..." he said, a little weak in the knees as their eyes met, "We got all this time alone."

"We're alone now," he said, eyes half-lidded, "You need four walls to tell me something?"

Sam bit his lip, but his hands were bolder, taking Dean's face and kissing him softly. "Please" he pleaded, "Let's just go back to the room."

Dean looked away in exasperation, but Sam turned him back, kissing him harder, whispering into his neck. "I got a bottle 'a jack under the mattress, I can pour shots for you and you...you can just lay there if you want."

Sam's leg pressed inside of Dean's knees suggestively, and for a moment Dean closed his eyes and let himself sink against the chainlink like a bug on a spider's web, that warm mouth searching the shadow of his collarbone. "We ain't got no money." Dean rasped.

"I don't care." he whispered, pressing against him, one hand reaching behind Dean's head to curl in his hair. John wouldn't be able to interrupt them this time, and it had given him some ideas.

Dean sucked in his breath, and then, regretfully, laid a hand against Sam's chest to keep him at arm's length. "I wouldn't feel right, keepin' an eye on you-"

"We'll be fine, we can steal-"

"What if, what if we got mugged, and, and I needed to pay a cab for the ER?" Dean hazarded, "I can't _steal_ a cab."

Sam opened his mouth to retort, and then crossed his arms, turning away.

"Don't get your panties in a twist," Dean said, smiling, "Two hours, gimme two hours and we'll head back."

Sam looked back at him. "I still don't think this is a good idea."

Dean hoisted the bag over his shoulder. "Tell me all about while we're thumbing a ride."


	26. Fucktopus

**Plot Summary: The boys are on their own for the weekend, and decide to make a quick buck by selling porn magazines in a town where the power's gone out.**

* * *

><p>It was dark by the time the boys hitched a ride to Crabbe County, figuring John would suspect something if the truck were missing and that their transaction would be done by the next morning. They could walk back if needs be.<p>

"Damn but that was one helluva storm." said Dean, shouldering the duffle bag as he eyed the trees uprooted on either side of the highway, "But where's the road? I didn't see a lake on this side of the map."

"Dean," said Sam, pointing at a car antennae poking out from the water's surface, "I think that is the road."

Peering down thru the surface, the yellow lane markers could just be seen at the bottom, the traffic light glinting red near the top. Ducks passed a couple of cars in a V-formation, floating serenely as the sun made gasoline rainbows in their wake.

"I am NOT swimming in that." said Sam, wondering what other sort of flotsam lurked below, and sat down on the bag in despair. "We're never gonna sell these things."

"Wait, I think someone's coming," said Dean, spying some figures thru the trees, "Hey! Hey over here!"

Dean squinted, waving his arms at a band of boys atop what appeared to be a billboard nailed to some fifty-five gallon drums, pushing themselves along with long lengths of pipe. Several camping items, most likely lifted from a pawn shop, accompanied them. "Hey!" he shouted.

"Hey back." the tallest of them replied, a string bean in a Jack Daniel's hat.

"You wanna trade?" asked Dean.

"Whatcha got?"

Dean smiled. "Throw me a rope."

He neared the little craft, catching the rope so it wouldn't float away, and heaved Sam forward to dump the contents of the bag onto the ground. "See anything you like?"

The boys eye widened, drinking in a lifetime's worth of pixelated nippleage. "Where'd you buy that?"

"Went dumpster diving behind a store on the interstate." he said proudly.

"You didn't swim in the water didja?" one of them asked warily, a slight, nervous looking boy of about ten.

Dean pulled a face. "'Course not, why?"

"He's being stupid," said the ringleader, punching Stupid in the shoulder, "The neighbor's kid went missing last night."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "That so."

"I wasn't making it up," said Stupid, "Lonny tried swimming back to his house, and one second I had a flashlight on him and the next he went underwater and...and..."

"No, don't stop. Tell the rest," said the Ringleader, warming up to his act, and turned to face Dean as if he were in on the joke, "This is the best part."

"Yeah, tell 'em about the thing what lives in the Stygian depths," said the middle boy, shining a flashlight under his face, "What carries away innocents in it's tentacular embrace!"

"Cursed to the shadowy waters where brave men dare not venture, where the dead dance their dark orgies!" he said, waving his arms over his head in mock imitation.

"Hide your daughters!"

"Hide your sons!"

"For beware...The Fucktopus!"

"_Ooooooooo_!" they said in unison, waggling their fingers over the little boy.

"I didn't make it up!" said the boy, now close to tears, "I-I-I don't know what got Lonny, but something-"

"Shut up about it already," said the middle boy, punching him in the ear, "No one cares about your boyfriend."

"Yeah, go play with your mom's vibrator," said the Ringleader, dismissing him for business, "Anyway, what'll you trade for some skin mags?"

Dean eyed the little boy, but could do nothing for him and so pointed at a pillowcase full of canned goods. "I'm looking to eat well this weekend."

"That it? Man, you're easy," he said, reaching down for the bag, "You sure that's all you need?"

Dean noted the dying light. "Throw in the boat while you're at it."

He nodded. "Done. Keep going down the main drag," he said as Dean counted out a few magazines, "And I guarentee you can do some good business."

"How bad is it in town?" Dean asked, stepping into the boat.

They all looked down, not answering the question, and suddenly looked much older.

"Right," said Dean, "Watch out for yourselves."

Sam watched them go. "You think something's in the water?"

Dean shrugged, tossing the duffle onto the raft. "People aren't used to the dark. Like, real country dark. They get scared."

"Maybe help just showed up." Sam said, pointing behind him.

Dean turned to watch the approaching bus, trailed by a line of cars and a camera crew. The bus, decorated with an enormous American flag, pulled right up to the boys, the front door opening with a blast of air condioning.

* * *

><p>The Senator was nearer forty than thirty, but you couldn't tell by looking. She had bleached all the color out of her hair without putting any back in, and painted her nails a queer flesh tone that made them disappear into the rest of her hand. She was tanned, long-limbed, and had a brittle smile that made it impossible to guess what she was thinking, if anything.<p>

The newsman shoved a microphone in her face. "Senator, do you any words of comfort for these two children of Crabbe County?"

She shot a smile at Sam and Dean, mistaking them for locals. It was an election year, and she'd been on the road for weeks now, so one pair of redneck teenagers looked much the same as any other. "Oh you brave, brave little souls," she said, extending a hand for each of them as the cameras flashed, "The trouble you've seen."

Dean narrowed his eyes, but Sam stepped forward to take her hand. She smelled expensive, and the perfume went straight to his head. They made an excellant pair on film, his dark good looks against her pale, like a dried rose against a thistle.

"It's a terrible thing," she continued, "A tornado on top of...well, everything that happened last summer."

"You mean the syphilis outbreak?" Sam asked.

She laughed, showing all her pretty little teeth. "And look how far you've come in just a year!" she said, turning to the camera, "My administration has labored to restore the Lost Children of Crabbe County, in an age of privation and turpitude-"

"Turp'tude?" Dean asked, confused.

"Wait, you're the one who came up with the curfew?" asked Sam, his brow twisted, "All those other weird rules where kids can't hang out?"

"They must learn the value of time well spent," she countered, wagging a finger in mock reproof, "School and the workplace are the means of a fulfilling childhood."

"The healthy pursuit of pleasure must come from a variety of sources, not just intellectual or material," said Sam in that Poindexter tone of voice that made Dean shake like a prom date on her knees, not that he would ever admit it, "Denying children the privelage of social inclusion will only further pressure them into illicit activities."

Dean bit the inside of his cheek. In the limelight, Sam's profile was good enough for coinage, and more than anything he wanted the news circus gone so he could get Sam alone in the dark.

Her eyebrows shot up, impressed against her will. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Sam Winchester."

She parted her teeth, her head notching to the side an inch or so. "I know a Winchester. From my college days," she said appraisingly, nails digging into his hand as she recognized his face, "He's taught you well..."

Dean beamed in pride at the mention of John.

"...considering it took him eighteen years just to walk upright."

Everyone laughed at the jibe. Even Sam. Everyone except for Dean, who saw the way she was looking Sam up and down and yanked his arm backwards. "We'd love to stay and chat," he said, "But we gotta make a run into town."

"Of course," she said, noting his bag of cans, "The campaign would be happy to spare some resources." And waving a manicured hand, two interns, pale and flabby law students, snapped to attention and went to dig around the back of the bus.

"Thank you, Senator," said Sam, as they hussled a crate of canned food onto the raft, "The people will appreciate the show of good faith."

"Oh I hold these people in a very...warm regard," she said, clutching his shoulder, his muscles flexing like a steel cable under her fingers. John had been a one-night-stand half a lifetime ago, and it would be stupid of her to try and recreate it, but Washington was a lonely place, and all the Ayn Rand bookclubs in the world didn't fill the hole. "Take care of yourself Mister Winchester."

Sam puffed up at the title, and would have stayed to watch her drive off if Dean hadn't pulled him away. He'd already escaped his own habit of hero worship, and wasn't about to let Sam fall into one of his own.  
>===<p>

The raft was cramped with all their newly gotten gains. Dean rowed toward town with the moon spilling across his shoulers, sweat dripping down his chest with his shirt tied around his waist, straining as he pushed them along with a pole in the mud. Sam leaned on his fist, hypnotized by the muscles under his tanned skin, but after a while he began to nod off.

"Sleepy?" Dean asked.

"No," said Sam, popping up, "You need to trade places?"

"Go on, get some sleep," he said, "It'll be a while before we get there."

Sam nodded gratefully, and lay back against the open bag, one arm shielding his eyes.

Dean sat down after a time, lost in thought as he catalogued the cans in the pillowcase. The moon sank behind the trees, a chill night air coiling against his spine. He was about to make some joke to Sam, when he turned to look down at the boy.

Sam dozed peacefully, stretched out over the dirty magazines with one arm over his face while the other trailed the water's surface, his shirt riding up to expose a few inches of warm skin. Dean reached over to take Sam's hand out of the water, laying it beside him and then, slowly,slid a wet thumb along his belly, savoring the shivers it produced.

Sam arched against his touch, opening his eyes partway and giving him a come-hither look that outshone every photo-shopped bombshell lying beneath him. The Senator's compliments had left an impression, making him bold and, coupled with the dreamy contemplation of lake creatures, making him eager for love.

He laid his hand on top of Dean's. "You're cold."

"Just sweaty is all."

Sam sat up, their cheeks almost resting against each other. "You want me to take off my shirt too?"

Dean didn't reply. He wanted a lot of things, and this made Sam smile. Peeling off his shirt, he pressed Dean gently onto his back, straddling him, mouth watering as he felt the older boy harden beneath him.

"I haven't stopped thinking about you, about this, all day," Dean whispered, as Sam undid his belt for him, "Even at the hospital, John's laying there with a needle in his each arm and all I wanna do-"

But Sam covered his mouth. He didn't want to talk about John, not now with a wide rivery expanse between them and the world. He wanted them to last until sunrise, a long, easy time until the boy went delirious with love, lost inside of him.

Sam's fingers traced the valley between ribs and hipbone, pushing the bluejeans down, and Dean grit his teeth as the cool air hit him.

"I can't sleep," Sam whispered, "There's something in the water. I can feel it's eyes on me..."

Dean remembered all those cameras with the Senator, how easily Sam had spoken her language. And how easily he'd laughed at his and John's expense.

"...and I need you so badly."

Dean's hands moved from his waist, slowly to the wings of his back, pushing him down for a soft kiss, and Sam released him to wind his arms around his neck, both hard against each other. Gently, he straightened out Sam's legs, undoing his belt one-handed and pushing his jeans down with his foot, until they were both shivering.

"Go easy," Dean whispered, "This boat weren't made for a hard ride."

Sam smiled. "Then I'll go slow."

"Hey, is somebody out there?" said a voice.

A flashlight shone shone in their faces, the pair of them nestled on top of each other like two forks...well, forking. Dean would have appreciated the joke if it were anyone else.

"Crap, turn if off!" he shouted, hustling to snatch his clothes off the deck floor.

But the light stayed on them, ten feet above their heads as if from a second story window. "You wanna come up here?" it asked, "We ain't got no food, but it's dry."

"Hold on." said Dean, grabbing his own flashlight and shining it upwards.

The tree house was massive, wrapped around the trunk of an old oak tree and likely just high enough inside for Dean to hit his head on the lintel. Framed in the door entrance was a scabby barefoot girl around Sam's age, dressed in a fat man's tee-shirt belted around the waist with a piece of rope. Three or four other girls crowded behind her.

"You guys hungry?" Dean asked.

* * *

><p>"This is awesome," said Dean, tossing the cans into the corner, "Hey Sammy, you still got that lighter?"<p>

"Yeah, here." he said distractedly, staring out the window as Dean lit a few candle stubs. The girls fell on the pillowcase, searching until they found a can opener and starting in on a thing of peaches with their fingers.

"How long you been holed up here?" Dean asked.

The scabby girl twisted her earlobe, cheap silver studs running the length of it. "Since yesterday. We thought about swimming out to look for more people, but there's nothing to eat, and..."

"...and you can only swim so long, no I get it," Dean finished, "We ran into some boys earlier, you ever hear about one named Lonny?"

The girls stopped eating, as if he had confirmed something.

"What is it?" Sam asked, "One of the kids said he went into the water and didn't come up again."

The scabby girl looked at the ceiling, smiling in embarassment. "Fuck I hate this town."

"You think something got him?"

"It's stupid, it's..." she said, giggling nervously and then finally opening her hand in a fan, "There's this pond, well, now the whole town's a pond, but before the storm there was this pond we all went to."

"That _you_ went to." one of the girls corrected sharply.

"Okay, that the sluts went to," she amended, shooting her a dirty look, "It was far from the road, you could bring your date there and wash the smell off so your parents didn't know afterward, right?"

Dean nodded, and Sam smiled like he understood, which he didn't.

"I mean it was hardly anything, you could walk right to the middle of it and keep your head above water," she continued, "But we figured out, after a coupla kids went missing, that you shouldn't go in there unless..unless you were with a date."

"Unless you slutted it up." one of the girls piped in.

"Will you shut up and let me talk?"

"Hold on," Dean interrupted, "So kids go missing in the water?"

"Well, not all of us," she said, "I mean, not little _little_ kids, cuz my brother went in there last month and his balls ain't even dropped."

"Huh." said Sam to himself.

"What?" Dean asked, "You got something?"

"Remember that deer you shot last fall?" said Sam, "We were way out and it took us an hour to get to the butcher-"

"-and by the time we got there the meat was no good," Dean finished, "Man I was so pissed, that was a beautiful animal."

"What are you talking about?" the scabby girl asked.

"Deer's got this thing, a musk gland, that fires off when it dies. You don't sever it right after the kill, it toxifies the meat," said Dean, "And you can't eat it."

"Once you hit a certain age, you're swimming in hormones," Sam said, "But once you're...active, you trade it in for another set of chemical markers, and maybe whatever's in the water can smell it and leaves you alone."

"I was right," the scabby girl muttered to herself, "All this time..."

"That doesn't make anything right!" one of the girls said, springing up from the floor and pointing at her in accusation, "If it weren't for you, we'd have a normal life!"

"I didn't know I was sick!" she squealed, "I was trying to help!"

"Fat lot of good that did," one of the girls said, turning to the boys, "Patient Zero here took it upon herself to ruin every boy in town."

Sam looked at her. "That was you?"

She shrank into herself. "I just wanted everybody to be safe," she whispered, "I was having a party, the whole school was invited. My parents weren't around, so I set up in the bedroom and...and told the boys they could line up," she said, her voice very small, "It was my birthday."

"And now we're all on lockdown and there's nobody for the rest of us!" one of the girls yelled, "Everybody's got the plague, because of _you_!"

"Well you don't have a choice now," said Patient Zero, hardening up, "We're alright during the day, but anybody who goes into water at night'll end up like Lonny, so-"

"You are so full of it-"

"Heads up everybody, this is a fuck or die situation!" shouted Patient Zero, all the girls shocked into silence, "Like I said, some of the boys stayed in town before the road was blocked, they were talking about knocking over the Piggly Wiggly for supplies-"

"Was one of them wearing a Jack Daniel's cap?" Dean asked.

They turned to look at him. "You mean Travis?"

"Maybe that's his name," he said, "But three boys hit the interstate this afternoon, it's how we got this raft."

The girls looked down at the can of peaches, at the little red pig symbol on the label. "They've already left," said Patient Zero quietly, "They were the last ones in town."

"Oh there's gotta be more boys than that-" Dean said.

"No, they were the last ones...the last clean ones." she said.

Sam pursed his lips. "The raft isn't very big, but if you'll wait until morning, we can all huddle up-"

"We don't _have_ until morning," said Patient Zero tartly, "Didn't you hear? The rain's coming back. A big one. Right now folks are sleeping on the roofs, but once the rains come and the river swells, the water level will rise..."

"...and there'll be nowhere to hide," Dean said, running a hand thru his hair as he heard Sam shift behind him. Sam was leaning against the door frame, watching the dark waters below, eyes unfocused.

Dean caught his arm. "Uh-huh, stay here."

"I'm fine," Sam lied, worked up by Patient Zero's testimony, "Just...did you bring your gun?"

"We are _not_ hunting this thing this very moment," said Dean, "We need a plan."

"It won't hurt me," said Sam, "Maybe I'll just go in for a few minutes, see if I can lure it close-"

"Oh no you don't." said Dean, lifting him bodily and dropping him on the floor with a thump that shook the rafters.

"Let go of me!"

Dean straddled him. "No you listen up," he said, pinning his wrists over his head, "We have no idea what's outside, so unless you want me to tie you down you're going to do as I say. Do you understand?"

"I-"

"_Do you understand?_"

Sam's face twisted, as if he were going to spit in his face. And struggling to free himself, he pivoted his hips, leveraging his weight and knocking them both against a wall, finally rolling over until he was on top, his hair falling into his eyes in a damp curtain. But Dean was dangerous even beneath him, and soon he was panting with the effort of keeping him in place.

"Wow."

The boys looked up. All the girls were staring at them in frank admiration, their cheeks burning. One half of Sam's bare chest was cast in sharp relief in the candle glow, his ankles locked around Dean's legs.

"Um," said Patient Zero, "Don't let us interrupt."

One of the girls tugged on her sleeve, whispering into her ear. "Um, I can see you're busy, but one of the girls wanted to ask," she faltered, "If, um, if you were, um," she stammered, looking at Dean, "If he has a girlfriend back home?"

Sam blinked, _who me?_ And calling up his last memory of a female encounter, who had been technically dead at the time, he shook his head. "What? No."

Dean laughed. "That's not what she means."

Sam leaned close whilst the girls conferred amongst themselves. "What is she asking? I don't like where this is going," he whispered, "I think we should go."

"What, back to Monsterland?" Dean countered, "No way, the second you get back on the boat you're gonna jump ship. We're staying the night."

"But Dean-" he pleaded, casting a glance at the girls who were now staring at him like a side of bacon.

"Kid, you got any idea what you just walked into?" said Dean, "This wasn't even my wildest fantasy when I was your age, this wasn't even in the ballpark, I used to think about the mom from _Growing Pains_-"

"I'd be taking advantage." said Sam, sitting up.

"Come on, you'd be helping."

"They're scared, they need a rational human being to bring them back down to earth."

"They need a bed warmer," said Dean, helping them both up, "If a little Wiggly Piggly will convince them it's safe to get in the water and leave town-"

"But I don't even know them-"

"And you're on first name basis with Kid the Squid down there?"

Sam looked away. "It's not like that."

"The hell it is," Dean said, turning to speak to the girls, his arm wrapped around Sam's shoulder to keep him from escaping. "Ladies," he said, "I think Sam here would like to make an offer."

"I hate you." Sam hissed.

"I'll be right here," Dean whispered in his ear, "Not goin' anywhere."


	27. Black Water

**If you couldn't tell with this story arc, I've been stuck in a small room with nothing but the short story collection of H.P. Lovecraft and an early Anne Rice porno, so forgive the mixed style.**

* * *

><p>Lonny's sister sat on top of her house, flecked all over with dirt and clothes still damp from climbing out the bedroom window when the river had overflowed. Mr. and Mrs. Ward, now bloated corpses, floated ten feet above the herb garden.<p>

Even if she could pull the plug and make the waters recede, everything was gone. Her house, her clothes, her books, her little brother...

And then she saw a flickering light thru the trees, a girl holding a cigarette lighter in the air.

_Aw crap_, she thought,_ it's Patient Zero, the hell she doing out here?_

"Whatcha doin'?" asked Patient Zero, the raft tilting drunkenly as she bumped against the house.

"Contemplating my navel," she said, "What do you want?"

"Some of us got a place higher up," said Patient Zero, "We got food and blankets."

"Thanks, but no."

Patient Zero licked her lips. "You're parents coming back for you?"

"Fuck you," she said, burying her face in her knees, "They went looking for my brother hours ago..."

"...I know. I heard about that. I'm sorry."

Lonny's sister wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Um, don't freak on me, but your dad, he's big into hunting, right? Had that collection in his office?"

"Yeah, so?"

Patient Zero held her breath, and then spat out in a rush, "Can you get some of it?"

* * *

><p>"It's so cold," said Lonny's sister, hugging herself as water dripped off her nose, "Are we almost there?"<p>

Patient Zero kicked a length of pipe toward her. "Help me heave this tub you're so hellbent to get there."

She stood up, grabbing the pole and skewering the water until it sunk all the way into the mud, and then gave a great push. But she was unused to manual labor, and soon her arms were so tired she could hardly bend them. "There it is, can you see it?" asked Patient Zero, pointing up to a treehouse set inside an old oak.

"Who else you got in there?"

"Four girls from school, year before you, and these two boys we picked up. They...ain't from around here." said Patient Zero, tapping the underside of the floor with the pole until a face appeared in the window.

"How's everybody?" asked Patient Zero.

The girl was pale, as if she weren't sure how to answer the question. "We're okay."

"I brought ya'll another one."

"Okay, bring her up." she said, and a rope ladder was extended.

Patient Zero turned. "These are nice boys, so don't worry, we'll take care of it."

"Take care of what?" she asked, as she stood at the foot of the ladder.

"We know what happened to Lonny, we can keep you from getting hurt-"

"What are you going on about-"

"Something's in the water," Patient Zero interrupted, an edge to her voice, "But it doesn't come for everybody."

They gave each other a level stare. Lonny's sister had heard the rumors, about kids going missing near the old pond. The nice kids, everyone said, the girls who crossed their legs in class.

She looked up at the lit treehouse, fearful of what lay waiting for her. "But I'm just a child."

Patient Zero looked around at the wrecked town, the absent parents, the flooded schoolyard, the dead neighbors belly-up with a lungful of river. "For who?"

"How do you know it'll work?"

But Patient Zero said nothing, securing the raft to a tree branch. Lonny's sister climbed upwards, one hand over another, until the last rung when several soft hands reached to pull her inside.

It was warm inside, stubby candles set in the corners, the girls having made a nest in the center out of balled up clothes and blankets.

"You want some dry clothes?" one of them asked.

"Oh that would be awesome," she said, peeling off her dress and embarassed at how dark her breasts looked thru the cotton bra, "She said there were boys, did they leave?"

The other girls all directed their gaze at the entrance, and she turned to follow. There in the corner, close enough to the door that she would not have thought to look, sat two boys under a blanket, the younger flushed as if with fever, the older keeping an arm around his shoulders protectively.

She wasn't sure how to begin. She'd done stuff, back before the town went crazy. Just quickies, a blowjob in the closet, fingering in the backseat, the occasional friends with benefits at choir camp. But for the most part she'd been on her own, and even in a town where sex ed classes constituted a puppet show about Hermy the Spermy and Peg the Egg, she'd at least figured out the basics.

"I didn't bring a condom." she said finally.

"Don't need it," said Dean, "He's been running all night on fumes. Kinda funny actually, looks like a little red eggplant."

"Got your sharp and pointy objects," said Patient Zero, handing Dean a sack of weapons, "I'll be outside."

"Excellent," he said, taking them in his free hand and setting them aside. Using the distraction to his advantage, Sam slipped out from under his arm and tried for the door.

"Uh-uh," said Dean, grabbing his wrist before he got too far, "Saw that coming."

"It's too hot in here," Sam whispered, "I need air."

"You got a customer, go tell her hi." said Dean.

Sam looked up at her, saw the water dripping off her hair, her skin, her clothes, and a dark impulse rose in him.

"What, what is it?" she asked, crossing her arms over her breasts, "Is there something wrong?"

Dean released him, Sam crawling forward on all fours until she backed into the tangle of blankets.

"What are you...get off me..." she whispered, his hand grabbing her left ankle so hard she'd awake the next day with bruises. It was all happening so fast. He pushed her legs roughly open, curling his arms beneath her knees until his breath was hot on her sex.

"It's the water," said Dean, "He can smell it on you."

And then her head lolled back as Sam's mouth came down on her, biting her gently thru the fabric until the water dripped down his chin. She rocked against him, fully conscious of her audience and too scared to make noise. The other guys had taken a shot down there, but it had been lessing "eating out" and more "lazy snacking". This boy would devour her.

He licked a bead of moisture off her belly, and then taking her panties in his teeth, slid them off and tossed them into the corner.

He put his tongue to her again, to that fishy, slimy wetness, Venice in Summertime, and felt her relax. He left a trail of wet kisses all along her stomach, stopping to cup her breasts, water leaking between his fingers. Once again, he found that she tasted better thru the cotton, and slipping two fingers inside of her, he began to open her as he put his mouth to her swollen breast. His cock, a painful throbbing misery, ached to be inside of her.

She bit down on her lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, as his hand worked. When he could draw no more from her, Sam wrapped his arms around her, peering over her shoulder to unhook her bra.

She pressed her nose to his hair, looking over at his companion who seemed to care less about the proceedings and kept a constant vigil on the waters below.

Sam ran his thumb along her cheek, but the dirt would not come away. "It was the wind," she said, "The tornado was so strong, you can't wash it. You have to wait for it to grow out."

Expecting a kiss or a hello or anything, she opened her mouth again, but he put his face in the hollow of her neck, lowering her gently to the bed with one arm around her shoulder for support. And taking her hand, he placed it on his cock, _Like I know where to put it?_ she thought.

The girl didn't matter to Sam, though it was certainly nice to have one who was enjoying herself. His real desire was waiting outside, beneath the silent waters, and he knew that if he could just make it happy, the beast redeemed thru love, the town would be safe again.

She put both hands on him, like with the pole she'd used to push the raft here. It had been so long, going down, down into the dark, and, then a little push...

He filled her like a warm fire, and she took him in in one slick motion, until her knees crooked toward the cieling and all the breath went out of her. Sam breathed into her neck, her long arms sliding over his back and resting there, guiding him at a measured pace. For him it was a slow torment, her belly shuddering with each stroke, tight cunt clinging to him as he stretched her out.

He was close, he could feel it. He licked the water off her hair, her throat, but it wasn't enough.

"Dean." he rasped.

"Yeah?"

"Get the other girls," he said, "And cut the lights."

The four girls ran around, blowing out candles and dropping their clothes on the floor. When it was completely dark, Sam reached for one of them with his free hand. "Hold me." he whispered.

They didn't quiet understand the significance of this request, but gathered round him as he sat up on his knees, angling the girl beneath him. When they were all around him, he dropped his hand to the hard knot between her legs, and felt her clamp down on him.

He closed his eyes, caught between struggle and surrender as the girl's voice began to pitch higher and higher, so many soft fleshy arms enfolding him, crushing him, needing him to be there.

"Oh fuck." she whispered, her belly heating up with a dark friction she recognized. She grabbed his hips, fucking herself on his thick cock as the other girls coiled their arms around him, pressing in on all sides, and his mouth dropped open as he began to pant.

"Ah...ah..." she whispered, her face to one side as the pressure mounted inside her.

The guys she'd been with had never cared about her orgasm, never been one for cuddling or pillow talk afterwards, so she'd never learned proper post-coital ettiquette. She came hard and fast, a held breath and sharp cry and then a sudden delighted sigh like "whelp! there we go!" and slid off of him before he could finish inside of her.

His eyes popped open. "Wait, where're you going?"

"I'm done." she said matter-of-factly, curling into a ball, suddenly cold again.

"But, but-"

"I thought that was the deal." she said.

He looked at her with something like murder in his eyes, and fell on her, his cock hard and eager to regain the driver's seat.

"Aaaand it's showtime." said Dean, grabbing a fistful of Sam's hair and yanking him backwards,

"Let go of me!" Sam yowled, reaching up with both hands.

"Okay." he said, tossing him down. Lonny's sister scooted off the bed, all the girls retreating to corners of the treehouse to give them space, wide-eyed as Dean undressed. Sam glared at him thru his bangs, but didn't look away when his bluejeans hit the floor.

"Kid you gotta relax," said Dean, wrapping a blanket around them, "You're all worked up over nothing."

"I need to get out of here." Sam whispered.

"You need to be exactly where you are, right now, right here."

"Please..." Sam pleaded, his hands unconsciously taking Dean's face, as arms slipped under his knees, "Please..."

"It's okay, I got you." he whispered, kissing him softly.

And now the girls understood why Dean had been so unconcerned during the proceedings. They weren't competition, they were mercy fucks. They didn't matter. No one else mattered.

"Make it hurt," Sam whispered, kissing his open mouth, "Don't stop, if you stop I'll just try and run again."

"I wouldn't let you leave." And with a curious smile of understanding, he crashed them both against a wall, and impaled the boy.

The girls all jumped in response to Sam's cries, unlike anything they'd heard while witnessing each other. He was helpless. The whole structure rattled as he was taken, mercilessly pounded as if to be killed by it, and for a while it seemed the whole structure might come down and drop them into the water below.

Sam's cock rubbed pitifully against the boy's belly, too sensitive to touch. "I don't think I can..."

"Bite down if you need to." he said, grabbing it in his fist, and Sam bit his shoulder, like a wounded man having a bullet removed, knowing it would be over soon. The familiar smell was a comfort, and his breathing eased up.

"Don't...stop..."

The girls watched in fascination, Sam's desparation now replaced by something simpler, transformed by the nobility of suffering. On and on it went, until the storm clouds began to gather and the rain clattered like skeletons fucking on a tin roof, and still Sam was not satisfied.

"The water's rising," one of the girls whispered, "The levee must have broken, how long til it reaches us?"

Another girl looked out the window, swallowing nervously. "They better hurry the hell up."

But the end never came, and soon the rain came in sideways, black water overflowing the entrance and pooling around Dean's feet.

Sam looked down, a hard glint in his eye. "We're out of time."

"Shut up." said Dean, heaving him back against the wall.

But something called out to Sam, and with the strength of the Devil he kicked off the wall, knocking Dean down. Dean tried to grab a hold, but they were both slick with sweat.

"Sammy, wait!"

More water poured in, making it hard to get a solid footing, and the next second, Sam lept out the door with his arms outstretched, and disappeared under the waves.

"Shit, he's gone," said one of the girls, hands cupped over her mouth, "What do we do?"

Something clattered at her feet, and she squealed to see a hunting knife, long and wicked sharp, roll to a stop beside her.

Dean smiled, a similar blade in one hand. "We follow him."


	28. Godzilla's Dick

**The boys will stop thru another couple of towns in this arc, if you have a monster in mind for the next few chapters, I am all ears.**

* * *

><p>Sam stopped swimming after a while, listening for voices and ducking his head when the raft came near. When he was certain he was alone, he let his eyes adjust to the darkness and tried to get his bearings.<p>

Except for the tallest structures, the entire town was underwater and all but impossible for a hunt. But he did not give up hope, and his first order of business was to break into a hardware store, fumbling around the cashier's island for a waterproof flashlight and a fistful of batteries. Satisfied that he could begin, he returned to the surface for a great lungful of air, and then releasing it, lowered himself to the street below.

The town's main street was three blocks long, two-story red brick buildings with store names curlicued on the doors in white paint. Sam aimed a beam of light before one of them, where several half-eaten victims stood fixed to the street signs, shackled in a black viscous webbing. Behind them, manniquins in bridal dresses floated in their display cases, the glass cracked where the children had desparately tried to punch their way in.

_It's close_, he thought, sending a jolt thru him that made his cock bob like a compass needle, and he cut off the light. He closed his eyes, little bubbles racing up the side of his face as he strained to hear a high, primitive keening, rising and falling in the same interval like a playground song. It grew louder, the water pulsing all around him, and a dark current swirled against his naked skin as wave upon wave of pressure spun out.

In the darkness something...slithered, a tentative feeler reaching out for him, and he kept still so he wouldn't frighten it away. The blood of so many girls was still fresh on him, and it had traveled far to track his scent.

His heart nearly stopped when it touched him, sliding a sinewy limb about his waist and pulling him for closer inspection. Feeling that he was safe to move, he pushed off the ground gently, and let his head resurface for air. He could feel it spread out below him, it's many arms raised so that his bare feet waded thru a field of bloodthirsty seaweed.

The limb on his waist kept him place while another pushed his legs apart, sniffing out his cock, his belly, the soft down on his chest. Though it was satisfied that he neither a threat nor a potential meal, it was confused by the clashing smells, and decided the boy would require further investigation.

"Ah..." he said, as he was pushed face-first up against the glass of the bridal store, the limb on his waist stretching and winding about him until he was roped from thigh to neck, the other, shorter arms prodding between his legs.

There was no way to count how many arms it had, fifteen? Twenty? They were all flexible, jointed muscle, hard and serpentine as they curved against his back. When he realized their intention, he struggled, dropping his flashlight with the switch turned on, and was greeted with the horror of his own reflection as it floated inches out of reach.

He couldn't see the creature itself, only his own uplit face in the window as the first limb raised itself to strike, silver in the moonlight and dripping with slime. And then suddenly it attacked, filling him, driving cruelly into him, relishing the heat of his body as it had with all the others.

He gasped and sputtered, flailing at the invasion, but he could not escape. They each had a turn with him, until he was so exhausted that he could barely keep his head above water. He flattened his hands against the display, unable to look away from his punishment, for thinking he could do this on his own. His cock struck the glass painfully, aching as a feeler wondered close by, always a half inch too far away, and he could not bend to get any closer.

But just as he began to despair, the creature turned him around, loosening it's grip so that he might move with some freedom, and he was able to grasp two of it's limbs in his hands to place against his shoulders. The old pond must have been lonely indeed. He reached under the surface, feeling for a head.

"Ah, there you are." he said smiling.

* * *

><p>Dean had sent the girls out toward the interstate, arming them with machetes and giving clear instructions on what to do should they find Sam or the creature before Dean did. Once they and the raft were out of sight, he began to row in Lonny's sister's old canoe.<p>

Sam wasn't hard to find. The creature had sent out ripples that slapped against the canoe's side, and he had only to prick his ears to their direction to navigate the way before he heard Sam's voice in the dark.

He'd spent years listening to Sam talk in his sleep, little indistinct noises of a one-sided conversation, but this was more like a litany, a rapid stream slurred in a single breath.

"Sammy?" he asked, tightening his grip on the hunting knife, the canoe fastened to a nearby telephone pole as he stepped onto land.

"...over here."

Dean did not bring a flashlight, but he could guess what he was seeing by the patches of broken moonlight. The water was littered with empty beer bottles from a nearby trashcan, their mouths bobbing obscenely in time to Sam's breathless protests. Sam lay on his back on a grassy slope, arms stretched on either side of him, the water up to his chest in a black sheet as something moved below, his eyes feverish.

"Sammy, you okay?" he asked, taking a trembling hand in his.

But Sam's face broke into a wide smile and laughed. "Kiss me."

"What-"

Sam clutched his face in both hands, forcing his mouth open, and it took all of Dean's self-control not to drop the knife in the grass.

"It tasted the girl's blood on me," Sam whispered with evil delight, "And now it won't let go."

Dean turned his head to look at the water, at the nameless something clinging to Sam's hips, but Sam pulled him back for another kiss.

"Stay with me," he whispered, "It's so good, you can't know how good it is, and I want you to be here."

Dean flushed, Sam's need for him never failed to be his weakness. But then his eyes strayed to Sam's body, and something flared up in him.

"What's this?" he asked, tracing a red line of welts, swollen and painful to look at.

Sam looked down. "Oh, that was earlier..."

"Did it hurt you?" he asked sharply.

Sam's hesitation was answer enough, and nodding his head, knowing what he had to do, Dean slid into the water and reached for the nearest bottle.

"Dean, what are you doing?" he asked, as broken glass tinkled against the side of the boat.

Feeling around over Sam, Dean got a grip on the thing attached to him, and yanking it off with a wet ripping noise, allowed it a startled roar before stuffing the bottle down it's throat.

"Oh fucking hell..." Sam whispered, scrambling to his feet as he predicted what would come next.

"Get in the boat, grab your flashlight." said Dean, Sam taking the oars as Dean severed the rope. They pushed off, bent on escaping, and nearly cleared the main street when a horrible warbling cry and a thump issued from far below, high waves rocking the boat as Sam struggled to keep from capsizing.

"I don't think it's coming for us..." said Sam, rowing faster as the sun rose on a fountain of red, frothy bubbles in the main square.

"Keep going," said Dean, eyes narrowed, "We're on it's turf, it's got the advantage."

Sam rowed in silence for a while, and then screwed up his courage and asked, "You mad at me?"

Dean smiled. "You get mad at a bloodhound for wanting to eat the rabbit?"

Sam smiled back, relieved. "That was brilliant back there by the way, I hadn't considered that as a weapon."

Dean swelled with pride, but tried not to let on. "Too many bar fights."

"No really, you're amazing under pressure." he said, freeing a hand to lay it on Dean's knee. He shivered under his touch, knowing that, once this was over, they'd be returning to an empty room with John still absent.

"Hey look," said Sam, craning his neck, "We're almost there."

And indeed the interstate was visible thru the trees, the girls' raft abandoned as they had no doubt made a break for civilization. Sam turned back, about to say as much when his eyes widened and he dropped an oar to point. "Dean!"

A tentacle the size of Godzilla's dick swatted the air, landing between the boys and chopping the boat in twain.

"Sammy!" Dean shouted, brandishing his knife, "Get to land!"

"And what?"

Dean glanced up the telephone poles, thick ropes hanging safely above the surface, and Sam understood.

But he struggled, he hated running from a fight. What else could he do? He was naked, unarmed, and delirious with exhaustion from his earlier encounter.

And then his eyes lit on the raft, the girls having tossed their dirty clothes aside for whatever the original owner's had kept for trade. Amongst them was a bloody pair of shorts, no doubt shucked on commando style after Sam had finished with her.

Dean was surrounded. He would sever one limb and five more would rise up against him, and even if he managed to get a good footing, the creature knocked him against empty cars so that soon he couldn't see straight.

But just when it seemed about to win, it released him, floating away to something of greater interest.

They faced each other, though even in the pink dawnlight Sam could not discern a face. He hung suspended in the water, his hair a dark halo round his face, the scrap in one hand like a red flag to a charging bull. It made that alien keening song again, as if to say, Like me?

But Sam shook his head. He had never been it's prey to begin with it. And with a sad look of farewell, he raised his arms, and Dean lifted him out of the water.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," said Sam, looking up at the wires, "How far is that?"

Dean pulled out a second knife, testing the weight of each blade. "Doable."

And breathing out, he aimed for the nearest pole, severing two lines at once and wincing as they struck the water with a loud crack. The thing slopped and shuddered beneath the surface, boiling in it's own soup until all the cars were covered in a scummy membrane. The boys took a few steps back, pretty sure the creature wouldn't dare attack in the open air, but they weren't stupid either, and soon the smell was too much to bear and they turned away.

* * *

><p>"Never, ever again," said Dean, swinging the hotel room door open and immediately feeling beneath the mattress for whiskey, "Next time I wanna make some money tie me to a damn chair."<p>

Sam plunked down on one of the seats by the work desk, wrapped in a blanket snatched from the raft, upending a clean glass and setting it before Dean.

"Man I hope those girls are okay," said Dean to nobody, the bottle clinking on the table, "You'd think somebody would've shown up by now, cops or FEMA or something."

"Probably no one could make a 911 call, if the storm took down the cable tower." said Sam, pouring Dean a healthy measure. Dean swallowed it down, thirsty and sore, and sat lost in thought as he downed a second and a third.

"You know, there's gotta be a lot of towns just like that," said Dean, as Sam refilled his glass, "I saw the newspaper today, that thing just cut thru like you or me would...draw a line with your finger."

The blanket had slipped from Sam's shoulders, so that the red band of welts was visible. The whiskey blurred the edges around Sam's face, and Dean wondered how far down the welts went as Sam placed the bottle on the bedside table.

"Might be a good idea to check them," he said blearily, Sam watching him with a cold fascination as he downed a final shot, "Who knows what other crazy things got shaken loose in the storm?"

He watched as the glass slipped from Dean's fingers onto the carpet, but Sam's eyes betrayed nothing. They could have been painted on with enamel.

"So what do you think?" Dean asked.

Sam stepped forward, the blanket sliding to pool around his feet. A red ribbon encircled his body, starting at his right thigh and lapping about his belly, his chest, and over one shoulder to kiss his neck.

"I..." he said, as Sam's shadow covered his face, and pressed his mouth to his.

Dean smiled. "I'm too drunk."

"No you're not." said, kneeling to undo his belt.

"You don't have to..." he said, shutting up as his clothes were undone. He'd been hard the whole way over here, but hadn't wanted to say anything after such a weird night. He closed his eyes, lacing his fingers thru Sam's hair as he took him into his mouth, and the room spun as he struggled to stay straight in the chair.

"You sure you're up to this?" he asked, "I mean, you cleared thru half a girl scout troop last night."

Sam peeled off the rest of his clothes, leading him to the bed with his hands pressed against his shoulders until Dean was on his back. He ran his fingers down the line of his muscled chest. "You fought that thing," he whispered, "And you walked away without a mark."

"Well I always was the pretty one." he rasped, as Sam's hand trailed lower.

"I meant what I said earlier," Sam whispered, parting Dean's legs and spitting into his hand, "No one fights like you. You make it look easy."

He put a hand behind Dean's neck and kissed him, distracting him as he drove forward, his breath hitching as he went all the way to the hilt, stretching him wide.

"And when you saw what it did to me..." he whispered, biting his neck as he began to pick up speed, Dean's spine arching beneath him.

Black flames licked at his insides at the thought of that thing having it's way with Sam. But he'd made it suffer, oh good and faithful soldier, and now he could afford to be vulnerable.

"You never get scared..." he said, and Dean swelled beneath him.

Leaning over for another kiss, Sam clutched the naked cock between their bellies, and soon the bedboard rocked against the wall, the whiskey bottle shivering on it's side table.

"You're so good for me," Sam whispered, "I couldn't finish with those girls, I couldn't bear it with you there, you have to help me..."

And so Dean grabbed his hips, slamming him in long powerful strokes with such violence that Sam tossed his head back in agony, his beautiful face twisted, he was very close now, they both were...

"No no no not yet..."

The whole bedframe shuddered as they fought to prolong it, knocking the table over, still going at it then and into the afternoon as whiskey poured onto the floor in a warm stain.


	29. Canned Meat

**I was extremely tired when I wrote this, so forgive me if a character does something and you don't get why.**

* * *

><p>The cameras zoomed in on the Plunkett boy, either a malnourished fifteen or a hardened ten, it was hard to say at this stage of death. An older version of him brushed the hair out of his eyes, numb and too cried out to shed any more.<p>

"Has he passed?" asked the Senator.

He nodded dumbly. "I dunno where my parents are at," he whispered, "They gotta know."

An aide came up to the Senator, pointing at his watch, and the Senator clapped her hands together. "You have my condolences," she said, slipping her arms into a designer jacket as someone handed her a menu and a cell phone, "My people will supply you with everything you need until the state arrives."

"But..." he said, turning just as she disappeared onto the campaign bus, her phone order for dinner cutting off as the doors swished shut.

"Here kid," said a pair of suits, "This should keep you busy."

A crate of cans and a shovel crashed to the ground, kicking up dust as they turned on their heels and hurried away with the rest of the camera crew.

He coughed, the street emptying of cars until there only him and the little thing crushed beneath a hundred pounds of cinder block. Alone once more, he allowed himself to crumple, balling up his fists in his eyes. Close by, dogs began to howl at a passing train.

_It'll be dark soon_, he thought,_ Gotta bury him before critters get any ideas._

He reached for the nearest can, starved for anything at this point, and was grateful the Senator had at least included a can-opener. A few dogs from across the street came to beg, their tongues hanging out as they sniffed at a dead squirrel and turned their brown eyes on him imploringly.

"Not for you," he said warningly, tipping the contents into his mouth, "Maybe I'll let you lick the can if you're-"

He spat, staring at the brown chunky puddle in disgust as the dogs lapped it off the sidewalk. He looked inside the can.

"Dog food." he whispered, a little Pekinese licking grease off his hand. He threw it away, wiping his mouth on his sleeve as he stood himself up. Nobody was coming for them, he realized. And picking up the shovel, blinded by tears of humiliation, he drove it under the cinder block and began to dig.

"You're not dead," he told himself, heaving another load to the side, "Not yet."

When he'd first built the meth lab, it was nearly impossible to get all the necessary chemicals, not without alerting state officials. Then one day, he'd stolen a package off the old man's porch, planning to hit the pawn shop afterwards, and nearly fainted when he peered inside the box. He'd dissected rabbits in school, but he was hard-pressed to imagine the contents coming from any healthy animal.

He'd burned it afterwards, though not before taking several photos and mailing copies to the old man, threatening to expose him if he didn't help the kid with his new business. It was a small town, and "witchcraft" carried a lot of weight.

The old man was surprisingly amenable, replying with a neatly typed letter that he would happily supply him with anything he might require, in exchange for running one or two little errands as needs may come. He had research of his own to conduct.

He stretched his arms over his head, muscled by months of grave-digging. By the time he finished, the sun had sunk low, and he lifted his little brother in his arms. "Don't worry," he said, kicking the shovel aside, "The old man'll fix this."

* * *

><p><em>"...with no means of outside communication, rural counties affected by the storm have relied on word-of-mouth to reach state services..."<em>

The radio warbled in the background, the bar littered with broken glass from the recent tornado. Dean plucked the liquid antiperspirant out of their backpack, shuddering as he jammed it into his armpit, "Man I hate this stuff, feels like I'm being licked by a zombie."

"Can we go now?" Sam asked. They hadn't seen anyone for several blocks, but that didn't mean the owner wasn't somewhere with a gun under his pillow.

"Won't be long," he said, checking his hair in the mirror, hoping he passed for older, "Just gotta restock."

Sam yawned, having awoken that afternoon to Dean tossing a pile of clothes on his head and declaring that he'd stared at the wall art until it had expanded into a gibbering Kinkade-esque hellscape, and they would benefit from sleeping elsewhere.

Dean ran a finger down the remaining selection, mostly rough gin in plastic jugs. "We coulda waited til John got back ya know." said Sam.

"And let me die of thirst?" he said, jiggling the last ounce at the bottom of Sam's whiskey bottle.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Only if I get to donate your body to science, you smell like a men's room."

Dean snorted, looking over his shoulder. "Hey what's that?"

"Where?" asked Sam, looking behind him.

And quick as a snake, Dean grabbed the hem of his pants and dumped the rest of the bottle down inside, laughing as Sam doubled over in shock.

"What the hell man?"

"Crybaby." he said, his cell phone going off in his jacket.

"You gonna get that?" Sam said irritably, cleaning himself off with a towel.

Dean looked down at the number. Twelve missed calls, all from the Senator's office. She'd probably sent someone to their room already. "Nah, just a sales call." he said, hitting the red button.

Dean plucked the newspaper off the top of the TV. "So...West County. Little further down the interstate, mostly trailer parks, the tornado just picked 'em all up and..." he said, crushing the paper between his hands.

"So what're we supposed to do?" asked Sam, confused by the sudden interest.

"I dunno," said Dean, dropping the newspaper, "Just thought we should help out."

"...back to our correspondent with the Plunkett family."

"Man that thing's loud." said Dean, reaching to turn it off.

"Wait," said Sam, "It's just a little kid."

A boy began to speak, his voice raw from spent emotion. "He's still in there, I can't leave him, he won't come out if I leave him there."

"What's this?" asked Sam.

Dean looked at his shoes, embarassed. "It's been all over the news. The kid ran a meth lab in his room. When the tornado hit, everything went sky high."

"Wait, they can get a camera crew into that place, but not the fire department?" Sam asked, incredulous, "How is that even possible?"

_"Do you have any words of comfort, Senator?" asked the reporter._

Dean could hear her smile, and his gut twisted. _"Rest easy, we will stand together until your little brother is out of danger."_

"Well that's reassuring." said Dean He watched Sam lean against the bar, his shirt wet and sticking to him in places, and he looked away before he could get distracted.

Sam swallowed, the Senator's voice echoing in his head. "Screw the job, I wanna go back to the hotel."

Dean smiled, thinking he understood Sam's reticence. "You act like the hotel's the only bed in town," he said, turning to face him, leaning over to place his hands on either side of him, "I packed that blanket, what's say we check out this town, find a bar afterwards, split a pitcher and watch the stars come out."

He slid a hand over's Sam's, gently tracing the ridge of Sam's wrist. He hadn't slept a wink all day, couldn't stop thinking about the awful job from that morning, and he needed to be around normal people, even disaster victims, for a few hours.

"They've already got people there, it's on the radio," said Sam, looking away, "Let someone else deal with it."

Dean hadn't meant to get so close, he really did want to hit the road. But his hand ran up the length of Sam's arm to his face, lifting his chin to face him. Sam was warm all over and smelled of sweet bourbon, his eyes glittering in the fading light, and he pressed his mouth to his, feeling him strain against it but knowing he would lose soon enough. Sam wrapped his arms around his neck.

"I can't," said Dean, pulling away after a minute, "I mean, I keep thinking, what if that were you trapped in a building somewhere?"

"We're safe now," he whispered, running a hand beneath his shirt, "Don't worry about it."

Dean had spent all day watching him sleep while the news played in the background, while the phone continued to ring, paralyzed with the fear. "I can't spend all day staring at the wallpaper, I gotta get out and do...something." he said, faltering as Sam's face stayed within an inch of his, slender hands gathering the collar of his shirt to make him stay.

"We gotta move while we got light." Dean whispered, too late.

Sam pulled them hard against the bartop, glass shattering as Dean's bag hit the floor. Sam reached down between his legs, finding what he needed, until Dean's breath became ragged, pulling him in for another kiss. Sam scrabbled at the zipper, and rolling him against the bar, and Sam stood on his boots, Dean's belt stretched tight in his hand.

_"Senator, what do you say to the critics who say the district is a loss?"_

_She smiled. "Oh we've got a handle on the situation."_

Sam brushed a hand over Dean's eyes, closing them so that he appeared peaceful for the first time all day. The radio blared in Sam's ears, her voice unsettling him and yet...

"Sammy, slow down..."

But Sam crashed down on his mouth, swallowing his protests as he worked him harder, bottles flying as Dean knocked against the counter. He dug his nails into that skinny arm, nothing would slow him. If he couldn't have him all day then he wanted it rough and dirty.

Soon they were breathing in time with one another, Dean's hands leaving a greasy print along the marble as he struggled to stay upright, and he didn't notice the cell phone fall onto the bar as it began to ring.

"Re-Election Office?" Sam said, reading the little screen, "Who's calling you?"

"It's nothing, it's-" but Sam had stopped to answer it.

"Hello?" he asked, "Yeah, this is Sam, who may I ask...oh yeah, from yesterday, look can I call you back...no no that'll work, twelve o'clock?"

"What did she want?" Dean asked, his skin crawling.

"How'd you know it was a woman?" asked Sam, and then looked down at the missed calls list, "She's been calling all day."

Dean looked away, straightening his clothes. "We got other things to worry about."

"But Dean, if you're so bent on helping that kid, this is the way to do it," Sam said, gesturing widely, "She was able to get into that town, I dunno how, but she's got the resources. I could go and talk to her, set something up-"

"Right, like she's gonna listen to some little kid."

"I'm not little!"

"Yeah, well I'm a bit older than you, and I know _exactly_ what she's doing," said Dean, remembering how easily John had held sway over him, "She's gonna tell you you're so smart and how you don't act your age."

"Dean-"

"And the way she talks to other people like they're stupid-"

"She's trying to help."

"She's a politician, her job is to stand in front of the angry mob and yell 'Follow me!'"

"No I know what this is. She made that joke, about John," said Sam, pointing a finger, "And you won't let it drop."

Dean set his mouth. "It's not about that."

"Yeah it is," said Sam, getting in his face, "You don't like any problem you can't fix with a bullet-"

"Sammy-"

"-when you know she's smarter than you."

A bottle struck the mirror, and Sam flinched.

"Crap," said Dean, running his hands thru his hair, "That was the last one."

Sam looked down at the backpack, now filled with broken glass, and turned on his heel.

"Better get going," he said, heading for the door, "It'll be dark soon."


	30. Rough Trade

Though all the roads to West County were blocked with overturned cars, Sam and Dean had no trouble following the rail lines. They gave themselves a little space, Dean following three paces behind and soon hypnotized by the sound of Sam's boots crunching the gravel.

"Hey." he said after a long silence.

"What." replied Sam, still angry.

"You hungry?"

"No." he lied.

Dean lengthened his strides until they walking in time together. "All the food was in the backpack, but I kept something in my jacket." he said.

Sam looked down, Dean producing a round butter cookie from his pocket, wrapped in a paper napkin with two almond halves forming a heart in the center.

"Who gave you that?" Sam asked, his eyes stinging.

"Nobody," said Dean, smiling, "Stole it from a girl's birthday party down the street while you were asleep."

Sam laughed, unable to cling to his resentment. "And what did you get her?"

"Five minute fingerfuck, here taste this." he said, grabbing Sam's jaw and attempting to jab two fingers between his teeth.  
>Sam twisted away, disgusted but glad to break the tension, and he couldn't hide his smile. "For one cookie? Man that's harsh, what's the going rate for cake?"<p>

"Oh the mom had a menu set up, let's see," said Dean, counting on one hand, "For chips, thirty seconds of frenching in the closet. Ice cream, remove three articles of clothing. Ice cream with SPRINKLES-"

"But the cake was the most expensive thing?" Sam asked.

"No no, the best thing, her mom made these apple turnovers," Dean said, his eyes rolling in their sockets, "And for that you gotta do a Jelly-Roll."

Sam's brows knotted. "The hell's that?"

"Well..." said Dean, pushing him ass-first into the grass.

"First the birthday girl gets to sit on your face." he said, straddling Sam with a knee on each shoulder, eyes half-lidded. He pinched a piece of the cookie off with his thumb and forefinger, tossing it in the air and snapping his head back to catch it.

"And you gotta lick her like an ice cream cone, good and noisy." he said, licking sugar crystals off his lower lip.

Sam flushed, his hips raising an inch or so off the ground in anticipation.

"And then," Dean continued, "When she finishes and your face is just a big smear," he said, raising one fist in the air and suddenly bringing it down by Sam's face, "She punches you in the nose."

Sam's heart pounded as Dean lay length-wise on top of him, hard inside in his bluejeans. "Did you really make out with some strange girl," he asked, crooking his knees to let Dean in, "Just for a cookie?"

"No," he said, hips twisting, "They told me I had to kiss a boy."

Sam tipped his chin up to catch his mouth, his tongue sweet and eager as his legs melted against Dean.

Sam's fingers slid into the inside of Dean's jacket, but Dean grabbed his hands, pinning them. "Oooo, whatcha gonna gimme for the jacket?" he asked.

"I, I didn't bring anything." said Sam, confused.

"Oh, well, then I get to keep it." said Dean, burying his face in Sam's neck to leave a lovebite that made him arch like a minx in heat.

"Come on, take off your clothes," Sam pleaded, "I wanna feel you on me." But Dean was having too much fun torturing him, grinding against his imprisoned cock in a slow undulation that could keep him on edge for an hour if he was patient.

The town they were headed to had been mercifully evacuated before the tornado hit, leaving a lot of empty houses to spend the night in, easy on the wallet and away from the Senator's persistent phone calls. He wanted a nice bed for Sam, something soft with real sheets, a window that didn't overlook a parking lot, a blanket that wasn't dotted with cigarette ash.

Sam struggled to free his hands. "Dean, please..."

"Okay," he said, releasing his right wrist, "But only the one."

Sam held his gaze as he undid his own belt, lips parted and bruised from kisses as he reached down in the dark. Now that Dean thought about it, neither of them did anything on their own if the other boy was available for love. Why bother?

Sam bit his lip, starting soft and slow. His hand was disembodied, belonging to someone else, and he looked to Dean for instruction.

He smiled, removing his jacket. "Can you go faster?"

Sam nodded once, picking up the pace, taking in a shaky breath as his chest rose and fell. Dean leaned back to peel of his shirt, gun glinting in the back of his jeans, muscles shadowed in purples and greys in the setting sun. His flat, warm belly pressed against Sam.

"I don't think you're gonna be able to finish." he said, moving Sam's hand away. Sam was about to protest when Dean took him roughly in his own grip and began working so hard that he had to clamp his other hand over Sam's mouth.

"Yeah I think you're just outta luck," said Dean, Sam's eyes bright as he began to pant under the boy's hand, his bangs matted with sweat, hips raised of their own accord as he fought it. He had to show some discipline, and he tried to think of something that would keep him from losing it, calculas, folding socks, a fat man in a leotard...

"All the cute fluffer girls in the world can't save you now."

...calculas, folding socks, the Senator in a leotard...

"Which is great, cuz it means that when we find someplace to crash tonight," he said, voice pitched low as he drew out the last words, "I'm gonna keep you up...all..night."

...the Senator, kneeling over Sam and slowly lifting her fist to break his nose...

With a final deep breath, Sam's eyes took on some of their former sanity, and they knew it was safe to stop for an interlude, at least until they found a safe place to pass the night.

"So how far are we?" Sam asked, brushing dirt off his ass.

Dean pulled his shirt over his head. "There's only one Plunkett family in town, found their address in the phonebook easy enough."

"You know the way there?"

Dean smiled, stuffing the remainder of the cookie into Sam's back pocket for later. "Not far at all."

* * *

><p>West County was one of the last company towns in America, shotgun houses built in the 1920's without ever bothering with the modern conveniances of insulation or plumbing, beyond extending a pipe from the well into the kitchen window.<p>

Sam crunched on the Plunkett roof, swept away in one piece, lying in the front yard like discarded toast, the mailbox lid whistling behind him in the breeze.

"Looks like everyone left in a hurry." he said, tire tracks etched in the asphalt. A train chugged in the distance, and he could swear he could smell someone baking bread.

Dean fingered a dried blood stain on the cinderblocks. "Someone was here recently, someone real hurt."

"Maybe they went to the hospital." he said, his stomach knotting in hunger. The smell was so strong, was there a bakery somewhere nearby?

"And have you heard any sirens the whole time we've been here? This place should be crawling with folks, but all I see are those stupid dogs." he said, as one sniffed his crotch and quickly gave it up for a bad job.

Sam followed the dog as it stuck it's head under a bit of roofing, pawing to get at something. "Whatcha got?" he asked it.

The dog finally got it's claws on an old can, pulling it out with his teeth to lick the gravy inside.

"Wait, I recognize that," said Sam, picking up the can, "This is the stuff the Senator donated in the last town we stopped in."

Dean glanced at it. "She gave us dog food?"

Sam started, and then looked down at the label again. "No, this is Chef's Dee-Lite."

"Dog food," said Dean, a smirk working at the corners of his mouth, "Only the best for her constituency it seems."

Sam felt a little queasy at this accusation, as if he should defend her somehow, but he let it go. "Who stuffs their injured brother in an ambulance and then feeds the local strays?"

They both looked at each other, hitting on it at the same time. "He hasn't left." they said in unison.

Sam clicked his tongue at some of the other dogs, tapping his finger on the empty can. "Where did the food go?" he asked.

Whining a little at the empty can, they soon realized what his question meant, and turned toward the railroad tracks, crossing them into a remote, less inviting section of town.

Sam dropped the can on the ground. The smell came from that direction. "And we're off."

* * *

><p>Plunkett sat at one end of an ornate dining table, polished until he could see his reflection. He was seated with a single candle to see by, so that the rest of the room was cast into darkness.<p>

"How's my brother?" he asked.

The keys of a typewriter clicked, a mouldering hand slapping the carriage return at the end of each line and tearing the paper out to slide it across to him.

DID YOU BRING THE RAW MATERIALS?

"No sir," he said, "But I have a lure in place, it shouldn't be long."

Another note, the face hidden in the shadows.

MAKE SURE IT COMES TO ME IN TACT

"Not to worry sir," he said, pausing ever so slightly as he heard two sets of footsteps approach the house, "They're already here."


	31. Fudgey Love

**I've been wanting to incorporate "Christmas Cottage" for a long time, in case you're wondering where the boys are headed.**

* * *

><p>Sam ducked his head, two ancient hedge rows interlacing over the boys in a seemingly endless archway down a well-worn trail.<p>

"Must be a lot of kids come this way." he said.

"How you make that out?" asked Dean.

"The spiderwebs," he said, lifting a silk strand with his finger to avoid breaking it, "They all stop at five feet."

"Well they're awfully conscientious kids, I ain't seen a candy wrapper this whole way," said Dean, too hungry to be wary of his surroundings, "Do you smell cookies? I've been smelling cookies the last mile."

"Must be a factory nearby." Sam guessed, "But who works after a tornado hit? Aren't all the roads blocked?"

"I dated this one girl," said Dean, igoring him, "Worked at this spa at the mall, and they would cover your whole body with chocolate mousse. For, like, health reasons."

"I don't think they use actual chocolate..."

But Dean's eyes glazed over, already lost between the legs of Fudgey Love, two fingers splitting the folds of her pink pudding sex in invitation.

"Dean you didn't actually try to..._eat_ the mousse did you?"

He blushed. "What? No, ew," he said, hunching his shoulders, "But come on man, think about it, hot naked chick in a whipped cream bikini?"

A squirrel peaked out at Sam from between the ivy, and he reached into his back pocket for the spare cookie. "Don't you think this is a little weird?" he asked, "I didn't see any parks on the map, who keeps a footpath this nice?"

Dean looked down and spotted a print in the mud. "Someone with horses," he said, "Betcha a dollar that Plunkett knew some country animal vet lives way out in the boonies, and that's where he took his brother."

"On foot? That's a long way to carry someone's been crushed by a house," said Sam, the squirrel's nose twitching at the proffered treat, "This feels off."

"Oh come on, this is some serious fucking Better Homes and Gardening shit right here," he said, twiddling an orange blossom, "You think Ted Kaczynski looked around his murder cabin and decided the fuck with pipe bombs I'm gonna get me some landscaping?"

"Actually his cabin was in a remote town just like this," said Sam, musing, "If Plunkett was running a meth lab, he'd have a hard time getting the precursor chemicals without help, for all we know he's part of some anarcho-primitivist drug trafficking gang-"

"What are you doing with that cookie?" asked Dean, having not understand a word coming out of Sam's mouth but pretty sure the cookie had a higher priority.

Sam looked away from the squirrel, it's little paws clutching his hand to stay in place. "What? He's cute."

"It's a tree rat, gimme my cookie."

"No it's not, you gave it to me."

Dean grabbed his wrist and snatched it out of his hand. "I'm _starving_."

"Give it back!"

"Make me." said Dean, smirking as he turned and bolted down the trail.

"Dean come back!" Sam shouted, taking chase, "We don't know what's down there!"

Sunlight glittered thru the archway as they ran, fragrant with honeysuckle that bent down to tickle their faces, and yet the further they ran the more Sam's chest swelled with dread, and his voice cracked with panic when Dean whipped away out of sight.

"De-ean!"

The trail ended at the foot of a grassy hill, pink and white azaleas lining the pink and cloudy twilight reflected in the creek below. _ What are we in Candyland?_ he thought. Sam spotted some broken reeds, and followed the water to a clearing in the trees.

The path soon gave way to a brick-paved walkway, neatly patterned in a basket-weave that wound alongside the creek. Fingers of sunlight peeked thru crepe paper clouds, backlighting massive stone vases overflowing with roses. Creeping lavender grew between the stones, sending up a sharp tang beneath the crush of his boots, and he found himself softening, his reasons for panic giving way in lucid dreaminess. He slowed down to look into the creek.

_The last town the storm hit_, he thought, watching two goldfish circle each other, _You could have stuck a spoon in the water from all the pollution._

Trees fluttered in the wind, and a spray of ivy leaves fell into the creek, little green hearts that tripped over the rocks and made Sam remember. With some difficulty, he tore himself away to find Dean.

"Over here."

Sam looked to his left. Dean had his hands atop a brass gate set between more sculpted hedgerows, his mouth open as he stared ahead at something Sam couldn't make out. "What is it?" he asked, jogging to his side.

Dean looked at him and pointed. "I found your murder cabin."

Sam followed his gaze. The brick path led to a mossy stone bridge, arching over the creek and up the front door of a grand old house that would have seemed old-fashioned a hundred years ago, and though it stood quiet, the owner was obviously expecting guests. Four chimneys smoked from the roof, the windows lit from within behind delicate stained glass panels, a holly wreath hung on the door by a white ribbon. A horse trough sat beside the well, morning glories climbing the sides to catch the dying sunlight, and everywhere was the smell of a warm kitchen.

The boys looked at each other, and Dean threw out his arm. "Stand back!"

"What-?"

"We don't know what's in there," Dean said, clutching Sam's arms with both hands and squinting warily over his shoulder, "You take the sniper position from those wind chimes over there, I think we can execute a two-man room clearance, with stun grenades and double-taps just to be sure."

"Dean-"

"Holy shit the birdfeeder's rigged!" he said, pushing Sam facefirst in the grass and shielding him with his body, "Cut the green wire!"

"Fween..." said Sam thru a mouthful of grass clippings as Dean stood up to approach the feeder, a trembling hand outstretched.

"These terrorists are getting smarter every day. If I survive, my nads will be blown to smithereens, but if I don't make it," he said in a shaky voice, "Tell my wife I love her."

"Dean, there's somebody in the house."

Dean looked up, and indeed a face was peering between the curtains of the upper bedroom, disappearing before either boy could get a good look.

"Aaah," said Dean, his hand dropping, "Must be our man."

"Do you know what this guy looks like?" asked Sam, as Dean prepared to knock on the door.

"Come on, a hillbilly crank dealer in a nice place like this? He's gonna stick out like shit in sherbert," said Dean, the door swinging open before his knuckles even touched wood. His fist stayed frozen in mid-knock. "Should we go in?"

They craned their necks, Dean opening the door and stepped past long woolen coats and boots to a tastefully furnished sitting room. Cream-colored sofas faced each other, low to the ground and piled high with cushions, a basket of half-finished knitting set on a spindle-legged coffee table. Logs crackled beneath a black kettle in the hearth where a dog might sleep, the shelves lined with books and cheerful porcelain figurines. Nothing appeared out of place. Everything spoke of comfort and welcome.

"Hello?" said Sam, looking around, "Is anyone here?"

"I'll check this way." said Dean, pointing to the left, and Sam nodded, ears pricked for signs of the stranger upstairs.

Sam wandered down a hallway, black and white photos framed alongside awards from various science academies dating from the turn of the century.

Meanwhile, Dean followed the smell that had plagued him this whole way, opening another door into a dining parlor. Antique rugs covered an oak floor, mahogany cabinets stuffed with silverware and hand-painted tea sets behind a dining table lined with high-backed chairs, all of it polished within an inch of it's life. But Dean had no appreciation for interior decorating, not when he saw the dessert sitting front and center, a slender blade resting in a napkin beside it.

Despite his hunger, he had to admit it was the eeriest cake he'd ever seen. Two layers, the bottom a long cylinder sealed in a pale blue fondant and tipped in white, the top layer a half-dome frosted pink, the whole thing hollowed out in the center and filled with a sticky raspberry preserve. He swallowed nervously. It reminded Dean of nothing so much as the story of Marie Antoinette from his eighth grade history book.

But this did not deter him long, and he picked up the knife, pressing the tip a safe distance from 'neckhole' for lack of a better word. It gave way easily, the blade cutting thru the most perfect fudge he'd ever seen, easily eight sticks of butter for the job, and his misgivings died as he sawed away.

Sam squinted to read the certificates, now yellow with age. _First Place for Notable Contributions in the Field of Organic Chemistry. Fuller Research Award for Molecular Taxonomy. Theodore Pace Award for Excellence and Impact in Medical Research. _

"Hey Sammy," said Dean, standing next to a desk, mouth ringed in brown, "This guy kinda looks like you."

Sam walked over to join him. Balanced against an inkwell, as if the photo were frequently picked up and carried around the house, was a portrait of two young men. The taller of the pair crossed his arms over a sleeveless work shirt, suspenders stretched wide across the shoulders with a narrow waist, his face a bit too feline to be wholly American.

Sam lifted the picture. The other man could have been his double. There were some differences, his lighter coloration, the hands clasped together in all scholarly seriousness, a suspicious tilt of the face as if he were expecting you to lie. But the bone structure was a match for sure, the cheeks, the brow, the mouth, he had probably been the same height roughly.

He turned it over. _Dr. Rothe and Pavel, May '09_

"What are you eating?" Sam asked, finally noticing the cake in Dean's hand.

"They just left it out on the table, this shit is amazing." he said, taking another bite.

"You just took somebody's cake?" said Sam, dropping the photo back on the desk, "What's wrong with you, we broke into somebody's house!"

"Come on I didn't take that much," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "Though I think I will go back for seconds, I can't even feel my feet this is so good."

"You have to ask for that first!"

"I dunno," he said, grabbing Sam by the belt and yanking him close, "You wanna go look for the owner?"

Sam's breathed slowly thru his nose, biting the inside of his lip. "They'll hear us." he whispered, so low he was just mouthing the words.

"How many beds ya think a place like this's got?" he asked, looking down as he traced Sam's belt buckle with his thumb.

Sam tilted his head away, shivering as he felt Dean's breath hot on his neck.

"Come on, five minutes in the closet," he said, toying at the hem of his shirt, twisting the cheap cotton around his finger until it wound tight around Sam's body, "I can be quiet."

He pulled back the collar, his face an inch away as Sam squirmed beneath him, cheeks flushing prettily as he struggled not to move.

"Ya know it was kinda fun back there in the woods, the chase?" said Dean, watching the thin blue vein in Sam's neck, "After we're done here, up for trying that again?"

Sam looked down at him without moving his head. "You got something in mind?"

Dean smiled and released him, walking back to the dining table. "This place is giving me ideas."

Sam ran a hand thru his hair, blinking hard to get his head straight. "There's a kid somewhere in here who probably needs to be in a hospital," said Sam, turning away to open another door, "You couldn't wait ten minutes before ransacking a birthday cake so we could...greet our host." he said, trailing off.

Another boy stood in the kitchen, hair tied back and clearly in the middle of soaping up his hands, his fingernails stained red. They stared at each other, though the boy seemed much more surprised to see Sam than the other way around.

"Are you...are you Plunkett?" asked Sam.

"How'd you know my name?" he asked. Though he was well-built and probably not much older than Dean, his hands were burned in places and his eyeteeth had rotted out a while ago.

"We heard about you on the radio." he said, sneaking a peek at the sink's contents. A mixing bowl lay on it's side, butter and red food coloring dripping off the rim.

"We?"

Sam motioned behind him. "Oh, um, sorry about the cake, Dean was really hungry and..."

"No that's okay," said Plunkett hurriedly, drying his hands on a towel, staring at Sam as if he'd seen a ghost, "I have some work to do anyway, you make yourselves at home."

"You live here?" asked Sam.

"My...grandfather," he said, looking away, as if he had suddenly decided something and looked to the refrigerator, "Hey, I gotta set up some things, you want something to drink?"

"No, I'm okay." said Sam, though the boy ignored him and plucked a glass from the shelf.

"There's an orchard out back, you get all kinds of things in the summer," he said, filling the glass from a tea pitcher swimming with lemon peels, "You should try this, it's great, better than that powdered crap."

"That's really cool, but I really-"

He couldn't remember if he'd reached out for the glass or not, but one of them took a wrong step and the glass tipped end over end onto Sam's shirt.

"Aw crap I'm so sorry," said Plunkett, dabbing at him with the towel, "I shoulda watched where I was going."

"No it's okay," Sam insisted, "It'll come out in the wash."

"You want a clean shirt?"

Sam pressed the towel to his chest, and was about to say yes when he looked up and noticed the boy was holding his breath. "...sure," he said finally, "If it's no trouble."

Plunkett smiled, relieved. "There's a guest bedroom upstairs, first door on the right, take whatever you want."

Sam nodded, holding his shirt in so he didn't make more of a mess, and couldn't help but notice Dean singing Creedence to himself in the next room as he mounted the stairs.

_"...bother me tomorrow, today I'll buy no sorrows, doo doo doo lookin' out my back door..."_

"Gotta say man," said Dean, cutting another slice as Plunkett entered the room, "This piping? You got some gentle fingers, if that's okay to say to another dude."

"Glad to have an appreciative audience," he said, clapping Dean on the back, "Can you feel my hand?"

"What?" asked Dean, eyes a little unfocused.

"How bout now?" he asked, touching Dean's face. His apron tinkled a bit as he did so, and Dean noticed the glint of a scalpel in his pocket.

"Is this like a black market organ thing?" Dean asked, his skin tingling, "Cuz lemme tell you, I would totally suck for your purposes, my liver looks like a Brillo pad."

"How about we take that cake with us to the lab." he said, as hands came from behind Dean and lifted him bodily off of the floor.

Dean looked up. As tall as the men had been in life, they stood an even five feet with their heads removed, though it did not impede them as they hauled him thru the kitchen, boots dragging down the steps of a wide passageway spiraling deep below the foundation.

"Man, you got headless henchmen too?" asked Dean, taking the last bite of cake, "High roller."

"Don't hurt him," said Plunkett, closing the door behind them and pulling out a key hanging beneath his shirt, "I'm not sure what all I need yet."

Dean swallowed the last of the cake as he heard the deadbolt click, the temperature dropping witth every step. A small voice in the back of his head shouting for Sam to come help, drowned in an ocean of Oxycontin, and for the life of him he couldn't get that CCR song out of his head.

"...Sammy." he whispered, as his wrists were bound to a hard metal surface.

"Don't you worry," said Plunkett, firing up a butane torch to disinfect a pan of surgical tools, "He's someone else's boyfriend now."

* * *

><p>Sam opened the door of the guest room. A humble writing table faced the open window, a typewriter set between a flower vase and a sheef of paper. A four poster-bed took up most of the left wall, sheets turned down with sheer curtains hanging from the top to puddle onto the floor. An ornate clock hung above the headboard, though it no longer kept the correct time, frozen at two o'clock. A hand-made shirt and slacks lay on top, folded as if the owner had intended to pack them and forgot at the last second.<p>

_They probably don't fit._ he thought, but when he opened the shirt he found it was just his size. Telling himself he would put everything back before they left, he shucked his dirty clothes off for the clean ones, running his hands down the fabric appreciatively. _Man we really have stepped into something_, he thought.

When he had finished, tucking in the shirt and buttoning the slacks, he looked around in vain for a mirror.

"Dean?" he called out, wanting someone to brag to, "Check this out, I look like a Young Republican."

A breeze ruffled the paper in the typewriter, as if trying to aright itself, and, he must have imagined it, a key clicked?

He blinked. The thing was a dinosaur, it probably made noises all the time.

But then came another click, and another, black spider legs swatting the page as the keys depressed like a player piano, and Sam backed away until he was flat against the wall, reaching for the doorknob only to have to slam shut. He grasped the handle, the lock sliding into place from the outside.

And then just as suddenly it stopped, the carriage return slapped back in place with a _ding_ that echoed in that small space. Sam waited, counting until his heart felt normal again, and then he crept up to the table, the paper peaking out the top with a single line of text visible.

HELLO SAM.


	32. Dead Man's Party

**I apologize in advance if this chapter makes no sense plotwise, I've been up to my ears in Lovecraft lately. O****ne of my favorite characters in all of horror-dom is Herbert West. If you haven't read the Lovecraft story or seen the film "Re-Animator", I highly recommend both.**

**This stoner moment is brought to you by my unflagging love for Ben Edlund. The Creedence song they're listening to is "Lookin' Out My Back Door". **

* * *

><p>Sam threw his weight against the door, but it was solid oak and would not give. The sun sank behind the trees, and somewhere in the dark came the pounding hooves of a midnight rider.<p>

"Deeeeeean!" he screamed, frantically looking around the room for something to act as a battering ram. He grabbed the chair by the writing desk and swung it against the door clumsily. After five tries, the chair had turned into kindling, but the door was barely scratched.

"You can't keep me here," he hissed at whatever presence was in the room, tossing the chair aside, "I got somebody downstairs, he'll be here any second."

He stared at the typewriter by the window, the paper stirring in the summer breeze. It was his only other exit, and his heart thumped as the hoof beats grew louder, clattering against the brick path in front of the house.

_I'll wait until the rider dismounts_, he thought, looking out at the night sky, _and when he's inside I'll climb up to the roof._ But when the horse stopped and a pair of boots crunched onto the ground, darkness descended on the house, and one by one the stars blinked out.

"What's going on?" Sam asked, looking to the typewriter for answers, "Why is it so dark?"

He whipped his head around. The floorboards creaked downstairs, someone too familiar with the house to be Dean, and he pressed his hands on either side of the typewriter. "Who is that?" he whispered, "If you're in trouble we can help, but you have to talk to me."

He held his breath, the hair rising on the back of his neck as something cold passed over him, and slowly a key depressed.

P

"P?" Sam asked, "Is it Pavel? From the photo?"

Y

"Why is he here?" Sam asked, the boots now at the foot of the stairs.

He stared at the paper, not daring to blink in the darkness, until he saw white rectangles wherever he looked up. The rider was very close now, slow and deliberate as he laid a hand on the railing, headed right for the room where Sam was now imprisoned. He listened for Dean, peering out the window in the hope that he had somehow managed to get outside and that's why he couldn't hear him.

_Dean's in trouble._ he thought, and with a desperate recklessness he picked up the typewriter and sent it sailing thru the air against the door, keys spraying like an old man's teeth as it hit center and fell on it's side.

It had been a last ditch attempt at escape, he knew it, and now there was nothing to do but stand his ground. He swallowed great lungfuls of air, fists up, ready to fight, when the footsteps stopped in front of the entrance as if waiting for something. After a few seconds, to Sam's relief and trepidation, the rider turned around and walked the other way.

* * *

><p>Dean struggled against the wrist clamps of the modified dentist chair. "Hey now, let's be cool-"<p>

Strong fingers took his jaw, latex glove squeaking as they pried his lips apart. "Open wide," said Plunkett, forcing a paper tab down his throat, "It'll go faster this way."

"The fuck-" he said, trying to spit it out.

"I heard you singing earlier," said Plunkett, walking away to a tape-deck with bloody thumbprints on all the buttons, "You want some Creedence?"

Dean turned his head. The lab was easily sixty feet across, unlit brick and mortar held up by ancient timber where partitions might have been. Shelves lined one end, packed with books and bone saws and jars full of brine whose occupants butted against the glass with a spongy _thunk_, and over the work bench someone had torn out half a science textbook. A covered gurney stood in the corner, a child's hand peaking out from the sheet.

"We can talk so long as the music's going," said Plunkett, turning up the volume, "Doc's upstairs now, with your friend."

_Sammy_? Dean thought, his mouth tasting like battery acid.

"Dr. Rothe don't like me talkin' to strangers, in case folks think he's..." he hesitated, looking over his shoulder and dropping his voice, "D-E-A-D."

He pulled open a drawer, a straight razor. "But that ain't so," he said, cleaning the blade on his bloody apron with an expert flick, "Just cuz the villagers come for you one night with pitchforks and dogs don't mean you can't be a productive member of society."

"Like..." Dean said, a little woozy now, "Wait, the doctor from the photo upstairs?"

"Yeah, that's him and his friend, Pavel," he said, "They met right after Doctor Rothe lost his medical license, I think the police report read somethin' like 'unsolicited brain extractions', anyway he and Pavel were like this afterwards." he said, pressing two fingers together.

"They looked like okay dudes to me." said Dean, his gut untwisting as the tab took effect. He settled into his chair like a man about to get a haircut, and suddenly they were just a couple of guys chewing the fat.

"Man those two were badass," he said, cutting open Dean's shirt with a pair of snips, "Pavel, that guy knew things, Old World stuff that never got written down, and together they managed some _shit_. Like, reversing old age and death and keeping a body goin' without the head sorta thing."

Dean looked over at the headless men, and he just now noticed how old-fashioned their clothes were, at least turn of the century.

"Taking off the heads don't effect them much," said Plunkett, pointing the snips at the dead villagers, "Amazing what you can ask of a man, so long as ya don't have to look at him."

"Aw man I liked that shirt." said Dean, pouting as his chest was exposed.

"You can imagine, the townsfolk weren't too happy with 'em, stealin' bodies 'n such," said Plunkett as he shook up a can of shaving cream, looking down at Dean and glad he wasn't the hairy sort, "After a while one of the old women put a bad word on them, something even Pavel couldn't undo."

"I mean who even does that?" he asked, squirting a bit of shaving cream onto Dean's chest, "They spent all that time tryin' to learn the nature of death, and she lays down some serious work sayin' they's cursed to misery and solitude, that even if they cheated death the gates of hell would swallow 'em up should they ever know a moment of true happiness."

"Wow that is fucked up." said Dean, shaking his head at the depths women would sink to, "The ol' You Fuck, You Burn in Hell curse?"

"Yep."

"Sucks."

"How ya feelin' by the way?" asked Plunkett, shining a light into Dean's pupils.

"I can totally see your aura."

"Yeah that's about right." he said, reaching for the razor.

"So what happened next?"

"Well a'course they died," said Plunkett, leaning against the dissection table, "Not that it slowed 'em down. Pavel had gotten it into his head that a war was a great spot for stealin' cadavers, so he went to Europe in 1914, got his head sliced off by a Russian cavalryman, and's been shambling his way home ever since. Kinda why the Doc clung to the house even after the villagers cut him up in his sleep, makin' sure the dead men kept the place nice 'n neat."

Plunkett put back the shaving cream for a jelly jar of white powder, dipping his pinky tip inside for proper dosage.

"Anhydrous variation I brewed up," he explained, rubbing it on his gums and grimacing, "Tastes like shit but _awesome_ for detail work."

"So why bother keeping the house clean?" Dean asked.

"For when Pavel got back," said Plunkett, giving a nervous little laugh, "The Doctor...kinda had a thing for Pavel," he said, leaning over to whisper in Dean's ear, "I found his poems in the desk, they're _terrible_."

They both giggled, high as kites. "Seriously?" whispered Dean, like they were gossiping in the girl's room.

"Yeah man, like, BAD. All moans in the moonlight and intertwining fingers at the moment of climax," he said, gesturing floridly with his razor hand, "Total twink. Anyway, yeah, guess he wanted a nice homecoming for when Pavel got back."

"Hey man, who wouldn't want that?" said Dean, peering up at the ceiling and knowing he should be panicking about somebody, but too fuzzy-headed to remember who, "Sucks to be homeless."

He slapped on a miner's helmet, switching on the light so that all Dean could see beneath the Cyclopean gaze was a gloved hand and the gleam of the razor's edge.

"Don't take the nipple," Dean said, eyeing the straight-edge warily, "I need that nipple."_  
><em>

"I done this before dude, don't get your panties in a twist." said Plunkett.

"Am I gonna die?" he asked, but all he got was a big bright faceful of light for a response.

"So anyway, I ran into the Doc a while back, and he cut me a deal," he said, shaving a large square of Dean's torso, "I get him a body in time for Pavel's visit, a nice-lookin' one, and when the day comes, I can name my price."

_The house,_ Dean thought,_ He's giving the kid the house as payment. It's what I would have asked for._

"What's Doc need a body for?" Dean asked.

Plunkett didn't look up. "What do you think?"

Dean nodded. A century of being apart wasn't worth it. Better to enjoy their last night on earth then to wander a virgin for all eternity.

"That tornado that ripped thru here?" said Plunkett, "That weren't no natural thing. _That_ was Pavel. Gives him a wide berth where he'll less likely be noticed. Just like the song they wrote about him back during the war."

"Aw man, I want a song." said Dean. Upstairs, a horse whinnied.

"Aw fuck," said Plunkett, voice shaking as fear cutting thru the amphetamines, "It's Pavel."

Outside, the night went from a bruisey dusk purple to total blackout, as if someone had stretched their hand out over the house, and Plunkett broke out into a sweat. "Holy shit it's _just_ like in the song..."

Dean gave him a sharp look, old habits rising thru the fog. "What happens in the song?"

* * *

><p><em>I have to find Dean.<em> Sam thought, and once he thought it was safe he scrabbled around the ruined typewriter for something to pick his way out, feeling in his pocket for the lighter with which to see by. Wrenching a typebar from the main frame, he leaned his cheek against the door and began to tease the lock.

Suddenly, the typewriter started up again, and Sam skittered away on all fours as it began clicking like some great evil insect. On the other side of the room, behind a brick wall where there ought not to be anything on the other side but trees and the cursed night air, someone was knocking.

Sam huddled in the corner, lockpick falling from his trembling fingers as the outline of a second door lit up the room, two long shadows stretching across the floor where a man stood behind it. The cigarette lighter burned in his hand, but he gripped it tight. He would not for the world be pitched into darkness now.

The typewriter shuddered with the effort of it's message, and when it had finished, it tilted over to land at Sam's feet, the carriage return sliding into place with a final _ding _as Sam looked down at the paper.

BURIED HIS HEART ACROSS THE SEA

Three more knocks, and when Sam did not answer, the whole wall glowed with an alien light.

SOLDIER IN RED REMEMBER ME

He rose from the floor, the flame down to a pathetic blue curl in his hand.

THE STORM AROSE, A SPARROW FELL

_I'll never see Dean again_, he thought, as the door opened and someone stepped inside.

AND ALL THE CHILDREN WENT TO HELL

* * *

><p>"It's really lucky that you two got here when you did," said Plunkett, replacing the razor in his apron for a felt-tip marker, "I've been in and out of the graveyard these last six months helping him stitch something together, and then Sam showed up and..." he said, dusting his hands off twice and smiling.<p>

"Do you have any idea how hard it is," he continued, the miner's cap blinding Dean, "To find a dead man in one piece?"

"Car wrecks, bike wrecks, chopstick in the eye, they can't just drown like normal people?" he said, using the marker to draw a dotted line down Dean's chest.

"So why do you...?" asked Dean, finding it harder to put a sentence together, and looked down at the marks on his skin.

"Why do I need you?" said Plunkett, and turned his head to the doll's hand under the sheet, the dead little brother Dean had heard about on the radio.

"He'll be okay," he assured Dean, "He got crushed when the house came down, but a few spare parts and he'll be up and running no problem."

"I'm not stupid, he won't be the same," he said quietly, concentrating on his work, "But we'll have this house. I can make him breakfast, with real napkins and matching plates, and take him for walks..."

"Please," said Dean, his eyes shining though he was trying really hard to keep it all in, "Don't kill me. He's already dead."

"...and sing him his favorite songs, and tell him the names of flowers, and read to him by the fire at night..."

"Sammy's upstairs with that monster, I gotta help him..."

"...and maybe, given long enough...he'll remember who I am." Plunkett finished, too absorbed in the murder he was about to commit to look Dean in the eye.

A pair of boots weighed on the floor above them, and Dean looked up.

"Ah," said Plunkett, "Pavel will be going up to join your friend. Don't worry, this place is pretty big, but we'll be able to suss Sam out in time for Doctor Rothe to take his place."

"What?" said Dean, looking round at him in confusion.

"Well the Doctor can't take a body's still alive," Plunkett explained, plucking a fresh scalpel from his apron, "But I'll send one of the boys up once we know Sam is on the run, and once he's dead the Doc can...what's so funny?"

Dean made a choking noise. As least, Plunkett assumed he was choking, and not laughing, tears rolling down the sides of his face.

"You think...that Sam..._Sam,_" said Dean, shaking so hard it was difficult to get all the words out, "...would be locked in a room with a headless mad science junkie...with his own theme song! Who's waited a hundred years to bone Sam's evil twin!" he said, laughing so loud that the glass jars rattled in their shelves," And you think he's just gonna run the other way?"

Plunkett dropped the scalpel.

"Poor bastard won't know what hit him," said Dean, "You get that boy riled up right, and Sam Winchester is the fiercest piece ass you can get without a prescription."

Plunkett backed away, a chill run thru him as the laboratory began to rattle with the force of an angry spirit. "What is it Doctor?" he asked the empty air.

A jar smashed to the ground, and in the swirling fluids someone wrote STOP SAM.

Dean settled down after a minute, not having noticed this little exchange, and sighed happily. "Boy I hope he doesn't fuck the cake too."

Plunkett stared at him. "What?"

"I dunno man, that is one scary-looking cake."

Dean looked up at Plunkett with something like business in his eyes for the first time all evening, and with a great effort the chair arms began to creak in protest.

"And that honey is all mine," he said, tearing a wrist brace away, knowing he'd feel it when the drugs wore off, "Just as soon as I beat your ass."

* * *

><p>Sam stood in the middle of the room, the wind extinguishing the little flame in his hand. Wide shoulders filled out a cavalry's uniform, great coat swishing against high riding boots. A pale face swam like an after-image, his throat bound in a red scarf that trailed behind him in the summer breeze.<p>

Sam closed his eyes, biting his lip as he waited for the first strike. There was nothing he could do. This was how it would end.

And then, a gloved hand reached out and lay flat across his eyes. They were cold but gentle, tracing the lines of his cheekbones, the angle of his jaw, and he let out a ragged breath as they reached his lips but he dared not look up.

The soldier stepped behind him, heels clicking as his fingers curved along and drew a line down his neck. Sam found himself unwittingly bending to his touch, opening his throat to him though he was still very frightened. The gloves came off, and he felt the man draw near to him, cold as clay against his back. He was about to say something when a pair of scarred hands reached around and began to undo his shirt.

"What are you..." Sam began, as the night air hit his exposed skin. The top buttons came undone, the man pulling the collar apart to reveal more of the boy, and cold hands brushed along Sam's shoulders until the sleeves pooled around his arms.

Sam's eyes widened as he realized what was being asked of him. He'd sought after a lot of things, but nothing that could walk thru walls, blot out the stars, and he stood perfectly still, wondering if he would survive the night.

The soldier lifted his arms for him, removing Sam's shirt and letting it fall to the floor. With the barest touch he pulled them both toward the bed, the frame creaking as he sat on the edge. Sam did not refuse, averting his eyes so he did not have to look into that awful face. The man took Sam on his lap, who huddled like a child against this man's massive body. He flushed as he felt a finger trace his neck again, running down his chest and causing his breath to hitch when he reached the hollow beneath his ribcage, and he balled up his fists to fight back a scream when he felt his slacks being undone. He would fight it.

But when the hand reached inside, Sam went limp in his arms, head lolling back as he whimpered in the dark. And it clicked for him. _He thinks I'm that man in the photograph,_ he thought, _he's not going to hurt me._

He reached out to touch the man's face, and found it to be grainy, a fine dust coming off between Sam's fingers. Looking into the man's blue eyes, he realized they were glass, set into a plaster head, cool and serene as a church saint. He fingered the red scarf around his neck, but the man took his hand and gently placed it away.

Sam stretched beneath his touch, soft young flesh cradled in the arms of a living statue. On the floor, the typewriter ticked a single key, but Sam ignored it. It ticked again, and again, and finally Sam looked over to see what the matter was.

NNNNNNNN

"No?" Sam asked the room, "Why?"

But the soldier turned him back, that pretty face that he'd crossed an ocean to feel again, and Sam gave him his attention.

"You can't see me, or hear me, can you?" he asked, pressing his hand flat against the soldier's chest, the heart having stopped long ago. He put the man's fingers to his own lips and mouthed, "Pavel?"

The curtains billowed about them, catching on the stony face and falling away slowly, blue eyes staring down blindly. He felt immeasurable pity for the dead man, to escape the charnel house of war and return to an empty home where no one remembered his name save for a strange boy here by chance.

He wrapped his arms around his neck, the red scarf chafing his skin, and let himself be carried to the head of the bed. He felt oddly safe sealed inside the curtains, against the tangible darkness, the Out There that lay in wait for the midnight rider like a jailer allowing a final request.

"Here, let me..." Sam offered, reaching out to undo the man's shirt, but his hands were removed, gently placed on the banisters at either side of him, and Sam shuddered as cold fingers unloosed his slacks and began to pull them off. He grit his teeth, now completely uncovered against the sheets and nearly as blind as the creature bending over him, big as a bear and all the more unsettling for his silence.

But he kept his hands up, gripping the polished wood as the pale face loomed large, inches from him now, barrel chest hovering over his shivering body. They kept up this staring contest with only Sam's labored breathing to break the silence, speeding up as cold fingers ran the length of his leg. He had to fight hard not to let go of the banister and lead the hand where he wanted it, but it got there soon enough, and he gave a little cry of surprise.

"You can't make me..." Sam whispered, knowing exactly what the dead man was after. But he would not yield, would not give up his body to be taken, crushed beneath that massive weight, not even to raise his hips into the cold hand working him so hard. He could play Statue just as well. He kept his back flat against the headboard, head dropped bonelessly, but never let his eyes stray, holding the bits of blue glass in his gaze like a trance.

"No...not like this..." he said, growing weak as his hands slipped, until he had to look away and pressed the side of his face into the pillow. His back arched painfully under the dead man's touch as he willed him to stay in control, drunk with fear and desire, and when the dead man pressed hard against his thigh, it was all he could do not to respond and pull the man on top of him.

His head wobbled on the pillow, panting and on the edge. Pavel had spent most of his waking days cutting open bodies to see what men were made of, and he wanted all the warmth that Sam had to offer.

"This isn't...what you need." he whispered, putting his hands on the man's shoulders, muscles like steel cables beneath the uniform. The dead man stopped and took Sam's waist, letting himself be pushed back until Sam was straddling him, years of dust fogging the air as they sank together into the feather bed.

"My turn." he said, pushing the hair out of his eyes. He unfastened the buttons of his trousers, knowing the uniform was important and did not want to strip the man of anything unnecessarily.

He put the dead man's fingers to his lips. "You're cold," he mouthed, tracing his cock, not as thick as Dean's, but hard as winter clay, "Do you want to be warm?"

The fingers pressed to his mouth in assent, reaching inside so Sam could taste him, a mix of brine and graveyard dirt. As Sam spat into his hand and readied them, he took a moment to wonder how Dean would feel about him being with another man, but then dismissed it, thinking that something so long dead, who could neither speak nor see nor hear, was little better than a construct, a cock on legs, and did not warrant jealousy. And with this last thought, he raised his hips and lowered himself down.

Sam was surprised. He had expected the dead man to react right away, to grab his hips and set the pace, to buck violently in the throes of violent love-making until the bedframe shook apart. He didn't expect the man to lay there like, well, like a corpse.

_He's never done this before._ he realized, and then a more horrible thought struck him. Not only had the guy mistaken Sam for his long-time friend, he'd been _saving_ himself for this, for one last roll in the hay before whatever magic holding body and soul together crumbled. There would be no second chances.

Sam gently picked up his hands and set them on his waist. "Like this," he said, keeping them in place, "I'll do the rest."

He started slow, never stopping but not releasing him, reading the manner in which the man dug in his nails. His own desire had flagged a while back, and he was in no rush to finish. It gave Sam a great feeling of power to climb on top of such a large creature, riding the one bit of vulnerable flesh encased in that bloody uniform and creaking leather. Years of being chased thru the woods had made him strong, and his legs did not give out as he let the man enjoy him.

"Faster?" he asked, not really wanting permission. They began to match speed, rebounding hard against the soft surface beneath them, and Sam smiled, hair bouncing in his eyes as he grabbed the bedposts for support. Soon he lost in the rhythm, the springs jouncing beneath them as the stale air was soon replaced with the all more pleasant mix of sex and black magic.

Some alien light gathered in the glass eyes now, and outside the horse whinnied in terror. A second rider was approaching, and Sam suspected this one would not bother to knock. All around came the noise of war, the trees thundering with cannon fire, and as he felt the dead man reach the edge, a phantom rider burst thru the window, glass spraying across the floor.

"Fucking hell who's that?" he shrieked, grabbing the dead man's wrists to stop.

But Sam clenched in fear, and the move pushed the dead man to his end, and he knew he couldn't stop now. And so he rode him to his doom, milking him for all his love, untold years of it, until the effort was greater than the curse binding his soul, and the tight young body giving such joy was so indescribably painful, that he came blood, and the blue eyes went dark.

Hell's cavalryman seemed to be made of moonlight, with blood on his sword and flames in his eyes, and before Sam could throw up his arms in defense the harbinger raced to the bed and swept the blade thru them both in a killing blow, and just as quickly disappeared thru the wall. The echoes of a horse rang thru the house, and then that too faded.

After a while, Sam was not sure how long, the darkness lifted outside, and the room was awash in starshine.

"What the hell?" Sam rasped, sitting stupidly on top of the dead man a few seconds before he realized that the body lay still beneath him, hands curled upwards like pale flowers.

"Hello?" he whispered, leaning forward to put a hand on the plaster face. The curtains washed over the silent face, but there was no response this time.

"Pavel?" he asked, a finger on the red scarf. Later when he told Dean everything, he swore he had barely touched it, only loosening it a hairsbreadth, but the whole thing unraveled, sending the plaster head to the floor to shatter.

**TBC**


	33. Christmas Cottage Massacre

Sam stood in a darkened bedroom, holding the splintered halves of a plaster face, when the typewriter started up again.

YOU RUINED EVERYTHING

"I didn't know." Sam said quietly.

He stood over the typewriter, another's man's blood leaving slippery kisses down his inner thigh.

I WILL HAVE WHATS YOURS

"Why should I give you anything?" he asked coldly.

A chill wind wrapped around the plaster face, and out by the well, the bucket creaked on it's ancient chain, very much like sobbing. You have to give consent for a ghost to take a living vessel, and Sam felt a grieving sympathy for the creature.

ITS FAIR

* * *

><p>Plunkett wasn't a bad fighter, but the miner's cap lit his head like a lightning bug, and made for easy target practice. Dean's first punch sent him pinwheeling into the dissection table, dazing him as he felt inside his apron for the razor. When he turned back toward the chair, the restraints hung off the arms and Dean had vanished.<p>

"You won't get far," he said, holding the straight-edge loosely, sketching a line in the air as he turned this way and that, "Doctor Rothe's got a lot of help between here and your friend upstairs."

He swung the light around to the corner, nodding to four of the dead men in question, and they spread out to search the rest of the lab.

"Come on man, we're miles from anywhere, your friend's probably dead, and I hid your gun," said Plunkett, "I got a nice hole in the backyard with your name on it, and trust me, that's more than anybody else in this house ever got."

"You like to talk."

A boot crunched into Plunkett's back, and he fell on his chin, a piece of glass from the broken jar cutting his face as he rolled away from a second strike. Reaching out for Dean's ankle, whipped up with fury and confident that he had the strength to take him, he fought back and was rewarded with a kick in the teeth.

"Where's my gun?" Dean asked.

"Not gonna-"

Pain exploded in his ribs, and when he looked up Dean's eyes were pale and empty, his shadow filling the room. Dean bent his wrist back until bones began to pop like uncooked spaghetti, and even with the amphetamines in his system the boy remembered helplessness.

"The gun."

"You can't kill them," said Plunkett, wondering if he could keep him talking long enough for the others to step in, "Not while Doctor Rothe's around, believe me I've tried."

"I heard a horse outside," said Dean, "It oughta get me far enough away not to matter."

"You ain't gonna leave til I'm done with you." he said, swinging the blade up, hoping to catch a leg.

"Was just thinkin' the same thing." said Dean, catching his other wrist, twisting it until the razor clattered to the floor.

Dean turned him around in a half-circle, boots scratching the concrete as locked his arm around his neck and got right close to his ear. "Can we have a conversation?"

"Wha-?" he began, before his air was cut off and his head began to swell with blood.

"Sammy and I used to play a game when we were little," he said, "We didn't have the money to practice at a range, so we'd toss whatever we had in the air and act like we was game hunting. Sam was good, could hit a beer can at thirty paces, but me, you could toss a penny in the air..."

He leaned back until Plunkett's toes scrabbled at the floor.

"...and Lincoln got a hole in his head every time."

"You're gonna tell me the where my gun's at," Dean continued, unable to see Plunkett's eyes bulge but starting to like the idea, "And then you're gonna tell what all can slow your guys down, so I can go upstairs and get Sammy. You do all that, and if I see you again, I promise I'll aim wide. I see you a second time after tonight..." he said, low and dangerous, "You'll just be another dead president."

"My brother-" he said, trying to slip away.

"-is dead," said Dean, kicking the razor into the shadows, "We ain't, so start talking."

Plunkett's teeth chattered in his skull. "Gun's in a jar, top shelf on the left," he said pointing, "Got an axe in the corner there, for firewood, it'll do for ya."

Suddenly, a spray of gunfire rattled from the ground floor. Plaster creaked over Dean's head, a fine rain of powder brushing against his cheek, and he closed his eyes, breathing in the knowledge that the other boy was still alive.

"Get gone," he said, releasing him, "You don't wanna stay for what comes next."

* * *

><p>Sam could feel the ghost in the back of his brain, growing like a blister, but he took the time to open the closet and push back the hangers to the bag in the back, the suit Doctor Rothe had ordered hand-made in preparation for Pavel's homecoming. He ought to dress the part, he owed the man that much.<p>

The clock was ticking, footsteps were already stampeding thru the house. Climbing out the bedroom window, he slid down the roof to the gutter, hooking his fingers into the barest crannies in the brickwork until his feet hit the ground. The stars had gone out again, and he knew he would not be allowed to leave the grounds until the curse had run it's coarse.

"It's okay," he whispered, holding a hand out to the frightened horse, "I'm not gonna hurt you."

He grabbed the bridle gently, pulling himself forward until he got to Pavel's saddlebag. He had been hoping for a grenade or a flare, something to act as a diversion while he scouted the grounds for Dean. He hadn't expected a dead man to come home armed.

"Whoa..." he said, pulling out the Tommy gun, "It really is Christmas."

Eight headless men stood sentry in the living room, waiting for him to come down the stairs. Soundlessly opening the front door, he crept down the corridor, gun muzzle dragging the carpet, lean as a shadow. He inhaled the smell of fresh paint, the weight of the gun filling his hands. Everything in his life before this moment seemed less real. Some hunts, you get paid in the best kind of trouble.

And whistling to get their attention, he fired away. They hesitated, mistaking him for a different killer, and bodies danced in a hail of bullets until they hit the floor, pointing in all directions like the spokes of a wheel. The gunfire hummed in Sam's ears, and he scanned the ruined room for survivors, porcelain shepherdesses smiling down at the bloody harvest. When he heard more coming from the around the side of the house, the gun jumped in his hands until the footstops stopped.

"That oughta slow 'em down." he said, watching one of them try and lift itself up.

More came from the kitchen, but they ran single file, and putting them down was easy, a single shot often ripping thru three men before embedding itself. He smelled smoke, and looking down, he saw a soft curl of smoke slip between the floorboards, drifting upwards to warm his cheek. He closed his eyes for a second, knowing Dean was directly below him with his own brand of trouble, and smiled at the next man he shot.

* * *

><p>Dean dragged the axe across the laboratory floor, arms like lead and splattered from head to toe in blood. Nearby, a torso dragged itself across the floor, intestines trailing behind like confetti. He leaned his back against the stairway railing and lifted his arms over his head to stretch, oddly relaxed. Undead always made for a satisfying kill.<p>

A hand reached down from the banister and stroked his face. He looked up, and the breath got in his chest.

"Well aren't we civilized."

Sam was dressed in an old fashioned suit, though he'd tossed the jacket before the fight had started. A crisp shirt under a three-button vest with matching slacks, gray wool as soft as a doe's eye. The ensemble widened his shoulders and tapered his waist, and Dean hated to admit how good it looked on him.

"Come on, we have to hurry." he said, pulling Dean's hand along like a toy on a rope.

"Where're we going?"

"Pavel's room," said Sam, a map of the house unfolding in his head, "Don't let go of my hand, I don't know if I'll be able to find you afterwards."

The house was much bigger than Dean had supposed. They passed thru room after room as if in a dream, each one connected with a door at each end, though Dean could swear the doors were starting to repeat themselves. The sounds of the remaining dead men grew faint, and though they hadn't taken any stairs going down, all the noise were above them now.

"We can't wait," he said, bolting the door and taking Dean's face in his hands, "Please, the longer we're here-"

"What are you talking about?" asked Dean, "What is this place?"

A brick fireplace sat by two matching leather armchairs, a pair of brandy snifters resting on a table between them. Though the room was decorated with all the good-natured charm characteristic of the rest of the house, all gilt-framed still-lifes and fringed reading lamps and bowls of wax fruit, it was obviously older than the rest of the house, the doorframe sinking just a little to one side. In the center, the floor opened into a sunken pit, and Dean descended the steps to a rough circular table with manacles drilled into the floor underneath.

"It's Pavel's living room." said Sam.

"You think Pavel brought folks in here," said Dean, tracing a brown stain on the table,"To _live_?"

"We're far away now."

"And how the hell did you find this place?" he asked, unsure of why he felt so threatened by the room. He could picture the two men in their armchairs, enjoying a drink, some poor SOB's entrails on display like a Cthonic chocolate sampler.

"Doctor Rothe knew how to get here."

"And how did he-" he stopped for a moment, noting the unnatural light in Sam's eyes, "What did you do?"

"It's the only way to stop him-"

"You let him into your head?" Dean asked angrily.

"We can't leave the house," Sam explained, holding onto him tightly, "Whatever's collecting on his soul is waiting outside, we have to finish it here, and this is the only room the others can't get to."

"How do I know he won't-"

"He wants to run," Sam said sharply, "I'm not stupid. He thinks he has a second chance now, that he can leave this house and start over in a new host, give his debt collectors the slip. Whatever happens to me," he said, low and gentle, "Don't let go."

He looked at Sam's shirt, white and creased along the sleeves, then down at his own hands. "I'm all bloody." he said quietly, keeping them at his sides.

But Sam smiled, placing his hands to grip his waist. And leaning forward until they fell against the table, Sam pressed his mouth to his, a kiss that both startled and weakened him.

They knelt on the table together, Sam bending to his rough embrace as as his hands traveled and pressed flat against his back. Dean's teeth caught around the top shirt button, and he ripped it away and spat it across the room, unwilling to let go of Sam for a second. But Sam twisted away.

"Don't."

"Why?" Dean asked, perplexed, "They're not even your clothes."

"I took away the only thing that made him happy," he said, "He should die with some dignity."

"He was a murderer."

Sam's eyebrowns lifted, as if to ask,_ And what are we?_

"He was gonna kill you," said Dean flatly, "And me, or at least let his flunkie have a crack at my liver."

"I saw the smoke coming from the basement," said Sam, kissing him lightly, soothing him, "What happened down there?"

"His men wouldn't die," he said, wishing he didn't have to remember, "I cut one of them on half. The legs were running around the lab, knocking things over, and the top half tried to hang on..." he said, tears springing to his eyes, "I dunno why I'm crying."

"Ssh it's okay..." he said, kissing his face.

"But then I heard the gun," he said, his eyes set, "And they didn't matter anymore. They weren't anything to me. So once I found a can of kerosene, I chained them together and lit a match."

He held him tighter, thumb leaving a bloody print along his cheek.

"I knew you were coming for me."

"I'm sorry it took so long," Sam whispered, "I didn't know where you were, and when Pavel showed up-"

Dean looked away, letting out a bitter laugh. "So that's what kept you."

Sam turned his face to him wordlessly, and Dean didn't need a reply. Sam belonged to all of them, but never for long, not even as a memory. This love was the sweet refrain he always returned to. And it was with this comfort that Dean let himself be pushed onto his back.

"I lay down with some awful creature and I think I've had enough," he said, kisses becoming more urgent, fingers reaching to undo Dean's belt, "And then I pick out your voice and I just about lose my mind."

Despite this confession, Dean was filled with a strange new terror as he was undressed. The two armchairs stared down at them blankly, waiting for this last sacrifice to be drained.

Sam remained dressed except for the front buttons of his slacks, and when he was finished he leaned back to admire the boy underneath him. "Put your hands behind your neck." he said.

Dean smiled. "Why?"

"So that I may look at you."

It was a strange request, no doubt influenced by the voice in Sam's head, but he did as he was asked. The lines of his body gleamed in the light, far too strong for a boy his age. Sam fixed him with a cool appraising look, his eyes glowing with a mean intelligence, and Dean shivered, wondering at this examination.

"Have you ever seen the inside of the human body?" he asked, a much older voice issuing from Sam's mouth, the syllables clipped.

Dean tensed as fingers trailed between his legs and searched him, and he shivered as if with a chill.

Sam leaned over, inches from his face. "It's beautiful."

Sam wrapped an arm around the back of the boy's shoulders, bracing himself against the table with the other hand as he drove into him. With him in charge it was no different than fighting, the hurt making him lose track of time, waiting for that final punch that would rush in and waste him. He laced his fingers behind his neck, and for awhile he could take comfort in the simplicity of love, like a prisoner reduced to the need for release.

Living Room. The men had lived all right. Everything before their final hour had been driving in the slow lane, and Sam would have given anything to see the realization in their eyes, that turning point in the transformation from man to noise.

Outside the door, the unnatural night filled with the howling of dogs, a dozen of them at least, and men crowded the entrance, the flicker of torchlight at the base of the door.

Sam breathed heavily, head down and spine arched as if under a great weight. Then, as if turning on a switch, his head snapped back with a stricken look in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, his heart contracting.

Blood showed thru the white cotton shirt, blooming across his back as the dogs began to bark even louder. Sam's mouth strained open in the reflected firelight.

"What's happening to you?"

"No don't stop..." he pleaded, and lowered his head to bury himself in Dean's neck. His shirt had become a hellish daguerrotype, but the fear of dying spurred his desire, the hurt forgotten. Dean had never been so frightened in his life, to see wounds open on Sam, the blood oozing in thick lines down his body. He was paralyzed. There was nothing he could do.

But Sam was exultant. His desire radiated like a black heat, and Dean found his fear melting against it. It wasn't real, it was just the consequences of the curse, and he would be whole again afterwards. It was exactly what he had been seeking, a lesser death followed by a greater one. There is only love, and then...nothing.

All around them the angles of the room changed, as if whatever held it in place was beginning to dissolve, and for a moment it felt as if Sam were trying to get away from him.

_Rothe doesn't want to die_, he realized, and grabbed onto his back to keep his close.

"Noooo..." he moaned into Dean's neck.

"Oh yes..." he said, snapping against each other, both tangled up in each other so that escape was impossible.

"You can't make me..." he said, his whole body shaking with exertion.

"Aw come on," Dean said, smiling, "You could do worse than me."

The shadows of an angry mob populated the walls, reaching out for Sam. And feeling the end was close, Dean pulled him in for a last kiss, his mouth filling with warm blood.


	34. Jason vs Kinkade

**READERS: I need a monster prompt for the next chapter. **

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><p>"I can't believe the judge gave us community service." said Boobs, stabbing a soda can with a pointy stick.<p>

"We hacked into a police video feed." said Braceface, orange safety vest flashing in the noonday sun.

"The varsity soccor team spraypainted penises all over the school sidewalk!" Boobs yelled, hands up at the injustice of it all, "And they got in-school suspension!"

"They had a choice actually," said Braceface, nudging a coffee cup with her sneaker, "First time offenders can either serve thirty days, put in a hundred hours of community service, or..."

"Or what?" Boobs asked testily, not in the mood.

"Or they could read a book."

Boobs stopped and stared at her. "Read a book."

"Uh huh."

"And they said no?"

Braceface shrugged. "They're not readers."

"_I_ wanna read a book!" Boobs flailed, "Where are we anyway?"

Their supervisor dozed in a nearby pick-up, unconcerned about her charges running off. The only business near this part of the campgrounds was a used tire shop, closed for the day, the window replaced with a piece of plywood that read WE ACCEPT CREDIT CARDS in contrasting spraypaint.

"The end of the world," said Braceface, hoisting the bag over her shoulder, "Let's step into the shade, I'm dyin' in this heat."

Casting another quick glance at their supervisor, they tiptoed into the trees, as inconspicuous as two traffic cones on a golf course in their orange vests.

"So you gonna go down to the store and pick up_ Forty Shades of Tweed_?" asked Braceface.

"What? Ew," said Boobs, spearing another can with a dignified _squick_, "Have you read it?"

"No." said Braceface quickly, and they nodded in solidarity.

"I heard it's just more of the same," said Boobs, fluttering her eyelashes, "Oh my gosh, your shit is so tortured, teach me the power of Clit Fu after a thousand of pages worth of overwritten build-up."

"True that," said Braceface, "If no one's had sex by page three, it's a lost cause."

"There's not really that much trash back here," said Boobs, looking around, "I don't wanna get in trouble if Sheriff Sassy catches us off the road."

"The contractors dump stuff nearby, over where the counseler's cabin used to be," said Braceface, pointing, "Sheriff doesn't care so long as our bags are full, we could probably finds all kinds of crap."

"Awesome sauce, lead the way."

"What do you have against_ Forty Shades_ anyway?" asked Braceface as they walked toward the cabin, "I thought you were all 'Fanfiction is a supportive community fighting the Man'."

"The series it's based on was totally classist!" said Boobs, "Who am I gonna sleep with, the emotionally supportive blue collar brown guy I've known all my life-"

"-with the six-pack-"

"Holy shit yeah, was that ever a money shot," said Boobs, eyes glazing over at the memory, "Or am I gonna go with some Sparkle Pony in a million dollar house who cuts my food for me?"

"With no six-pack."

"Exactly! All those hot indigenous guys in their jean cut-offs, all showin' off their man-tits like they spent the morning dead-lifting a pallet of Greek Sailors. And the only girl in the pack had bad hair and no boyfriend. The message is clear," she said with a knowing air, "Being a werewolf queers you."

"You're just mad just_ Forty Shades_ isn't the gaysploitation lady wank novel you'd been hoping for."

"Oh come on, who wants to spend eternity as carnivorous jailbait playing dress-up with a bunch of drag queens? Anyway, my point," she said, raising the stick for emphasis, "Is that if the brown motorcycle mechanic had money, it'd be no contest."

"So you're into mechanics now?"

"No way," said Boobs, letting the stick drop, "I could never date someone dumber than me."

"I don't think it was the money," said Braceface thoughtfully, stabbing a used condom, "The vampire was a confessed killer."

"So?"

"I think she liked the risk," said Braceface, turning and dropping her voice, "Did you hear that?"

"I didn't hear anything."

Braceface held a finger to her lips, wide-eyed as she strained to hear. "Sounds like someone's running."

They looked at each other. "Who else would come out here?" asked Boobs.

It was louder now, not far from where they were standing, and they started as a figure burst out of the underbrush. He was all pinks and reds, red flannel shirt beneath a suede jacket, a bright striped scarf like a pack of Lifesavers around his neck, apple-cheeked from running, and he zig-zagged from tree to tree like a gazelle, leaping over fallen logs with his heels kicked back.

"No, don't go out there," hissed Braceface, yanking Boobs by the arm, "We don't know what he's running from."

"Let's go back to the road."

"No," said Braceface, looking over her shoulder, "He'll see us. The cabin's closer."

"I don't think-"

Suddenly a second boy dropped out of the trees right in front of the first. He was hard to see against the rest of the forest, for he was all over dirt and dry leaves, but he hit the ground running and reached out for the boy's scarf. Boobs latched onto Braceface's arm in fear. He looked huge silhouetted against the sun, a hatchet in one hand and a hockey mask for a face.

"Fuck this noise." said Braceface. And ditching their orange vests, the girls ran for the safety of elsewhere.

"How long're we supposed to stay here?" asked Boobs, looking around as Braceface shut the cabin door behind them. The windows had busted years ago, too high up the wall for climbers, and the only furniture was an aged bunkbed with a horse blanket on top.

"Shut up and give me a foothold."

Together they climbed to the top bunk and hid under the mattress, peeking thru the end to watch for anyone in the window. They did not have to wait long.

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><p>Sam pressed his back against a wide oak, palms flat against the bark as he listened to the wind whistling thru the leaves. He was staring in the opposite direction, and didn't see the other hand creeping near, slipping around the tree toward his outspread fingers. When it got close enough to touch the ring on his right hand, he yelped and snatched it away.<p>

"Yee!" he hissed, ducking as the hatchet buried itself an inch above his head. He ran, thinking the masked man would need more time to pull it free, and pitched forward as someone wrapped their arms around his legs.

"Get away from me..." Sam hissed, rolling over to get up, until a blow between his shoulder blades knocked the air out of him.

"When'd you get so easy to pin?" Dean asked, placing a boot atop each of Sam's arms, voice muffled behind the hockey mask.

"Get off!"

"That's it, fight me," he said, stretching his hatchet arm, "You been smellin' like Evil Cock since we left the house, gonna have to sweat it out of you."

"You didn't have to chase me with a fucking ax you maniac!"

"Yeah you're right," he said, stepping away and reaching under Sam's armpits, "It's not what I wanted anyhow." The boy struggled in his arms, curled into each other until Sam's forehead nearly touched the ground.

"Quit it!" said Sam, grinding against Dean's bluejeans as they knelt in the leaves.

"Quit squirmin' and hold onto my arm." he said, looping his left forearm across Sam's neck in a chokehold, but Sam fought it, inhaling the familiar smell of flannel and motor oil as his nails dug in.

Sam tilted his head to one side as a hand circled round his waist, sneaking over the fabric to press flat against his belly, feel the rise and fall of his chest. Hot breath lifted the hairs on his neck as a hand undid his belt and slipped past, and he felt a smile against his skin.

"Ah baby boy you been waiting for me."

He'd been hard for the whole chase, and as they struggled Sam felt a sympathetic bone press against his back. Leaves slipped beneath his knees, staining the expensive slacks he'd stolen for the Senator's interview earlier that day. He tried to push off the ground, but the smell of Dean was all around him, a warm hand against him, eager for him to yield, and he couldn't catch his breath.

"You dressed real fancy this morning, how'd the meeting go with the Senator?" asked Dean, feeling Sam jump in his hand at the mention of her, "She ask to measure your cock?"

With an angry snort, Sam twisted his hips and lifted Dean off the ground, flipping him over his head with a _huff!_ and dashing away toward the trees. Dean swatted the air with a haymaker, catching his finger on the scarf, but Sam ducked out of it, pulling him off balance til Dean bounced against a tree and fell backwards.

"So that thing with the ghost in your head, was that a threesome?" Dean asked, feeling his scalp for lumps as he looked this way and that, "I'm counting that as a threesome."

He flipped the mask off, cursing himself for wearing something with such crappy peripheral vision.

"Why you gotta be into the freaky shit?" he asked, wrapping unwrapping the scarf around one hand like a boxer taping his knuckles, "How come the Nympho Cannibal Breast Monster never shows up on your radar?"

He tossed the scarf over a low, thick branch, hanging off it to test the strength.

"Cuz I'd totally hit that." said Dean, right as Sam snuck up behind with a kick to his instep. It would have been a good move if he hadn't gotten so close, and Dean got in an elbow to the gut, slowing him down so the next thing he knew he had his back to the tree.

"She's gotta know you stole the clothes," he said, securing Sam's wrists with the scarf so his arms hung straight over his head, "She's not stupid. Look at your hair, look at your nails. Boys like you walk into an Abercrombie store and mothers clutch their purses."

He grabbed Sam's ankles and bent him in half, the tree groaning under the weight. "Who you fooling with the clean-cut act?"

Sam hung from the branch, hands already going numb, hair in his eyes as he came to and realized his new position. "Nnnn..." he muttered, woozy as his boots were propped on Dean's shoulder, his slacks pushed down enough to expose him.

"The branch...won't hold me."

"Oh trust me," said Dean, undoing his own belt with his free hand, "The tree will give out before I do."

He spat into his hand, not intending anything drastic yet, just wanted to gauge the boy's reaction. "You'd rather do it somewhere else?" he asked, pressed hard against him, dripping clear slick.

Sam grit his teeth. He knew Dean was right, he could keep up a punishing pace when he wanted to, and the adrenaline had worn off, weakening him. It would be so much easier to be taken, and he closed his eyes as a cock slid between his pressed thighs, sliding against his own with a practiced friction that made him shudder unwillingly.

"So how was your dead man?" he asked, moving slow and attentive, "He can't have been that good, scouring the earth a hundred years to find his one true love. He even remember where to put it?"

"He didn't...need to remember..." said Sam haltingly, a hard glitter in his eyes.

"You think I didn't know you were up there?" he asked, his face very close, "That some spook had it's hands all over you, and now I gotta stand by while the Tits McCarthy makes fuck eyes at you?"

Sam said nothing, but smiled as if he'd just realized something.

"Aw come on, make some noise ya candy ass." said Dean, smacking him underside, "No one else's around to hear it."

Inhaling, Sam bounced on the branch, not enough to break it, but enough so that he could get a better grip on the scarf. And hauling himself up, he stepped off of Dean's shoulder and wrapped his legs around the branch, enough so that he could get in one solid right hook even with his hands bound.

"Should've gotten a higher branch." Sam muttered to Dean, as he jumped to his feet and arighted his clothes, estimating he had another five seconds before Dean came to.

"Officer I swear she looked older than twelve." Dean said, holding his hand out in front of him, seeing double.

Sam whipped behind the cabin door, dropping the thick wooden latch and bracing himself against it, a Cheshire smile on his face. He'd suspected something about Dean for a while now, and it made him laugh. He was so distracted by this new realization that he failed to notice the two girls hiding on the top bunk, holding their breath as his laughter shook the cabin, and they were beginning to wonder what the hell was so funny when the hatchet came thru the door right next to Sam's face.

_We're going to die._ Boobs thought, squeezing Braceface's hand in the dark.

Sam's head bounced against the wood, and his laughter subsided into something lighter, an affectionate smile toying at his lips. The ax was playing his favorite song.

"There you are." he whispered, as Dean's hand thrust thru the gap and reached for the latch. He stepped away to the center of the room, well aware of Dean's range once he got past the door.

"Fucking make me work for everything-" said Dean, kicking the door in, letting it swing shut behind him. He was blind for about a second, and in the time it took him to adjust to the gloom Sam kicked the ax away into the corner, grabbing his right hand.

"Sammy?"

When he didn't get a reply right away, his instincts kicked in, thinking someone else was with him, and he drew the boning knife he kept in his belt, blade flat against Sam's belly.

Sam held the knife in both hands. "It's me, don't worry."

"Fuck I nearly gutted you."

Sam shushed him, placing a hand on the back of his neck and gently steering him toward the floor, knife still on his skin. When he was lain flat, he guided the blade slowly up inside his shirt, whispering against the warm flesh inside, until it reached all the way up and pressed against his mouth. He smiled. Sam was a very different boy in the dark.

Dean understood. He yanked back, and tore thru the shirt, ripping it cleanly down the middle, flicking the knife in an upward flourish at the end as it fell away on either side. The smell of boy was intoxicating, and he buried his face in the warm belly.

"So you gonna tell me what's so funny?" he asked after a time.

Sam smiled. "You like her."

Dean froze, but suddenly he was hard as a diamond and Sam laughed.

"You're totally hot for a Republican Babe."

He blushed furiously, hiding his face as they rest of their clothes made it into a corner. "Am not."

"Bet she's got a great gun collection."

"Quit it." he said, pulling him up so they were sitting together, and began to remove his own shirt.

"She'd probably say yes, ya know," Sam whispered.

He pressed his mouth to his, and they fell to the floor again, wrapped up in each other for the first time in days. Dean allowed himself to dig into the dark soil of his imagination, of walking in on the Senator and John, the look of surprise on their faces. The extended hand of invitation...

"No," he said to the room, "Don't even think about it."

"How is she different from any other chick?" Sam asked reasonably, "We have fun for one day and then we're out of town, ships in the night."

"Aren't I enough?" he asked, trying to keep the note of pleading out of his voice.

"Were you scared I was gonna die back there?" Sam whispered, fingers laced in Dean's hair.

Dean didn't answer. He didn't want to have to lie.

"Cuz the soldier, he could have stomped on me like a cheap watch. Same with all the others," he said, pulling Dean up to his face, "But he didn't."

He wrapped his legs around his waist, lifting him with his hips until the floorboards creaked.

"They all pull the trigger, but the bomb never goes off," he said, the ring resting lightly against his cheek, "Not for them."

"That last guy..." Dean hesitated, that awful despair of being strapped to that chair, wondering where Sam was, wondering who he was with. If Sam was any different with other creatures.

"...was trouble, I know." he said, rolling over so he was on top, and began kissing him feverishly, "He had enough black science to fill the graveyards and I fucked him. I fucked him til the house shook. Until his soul was lost. Until he came blood," he said, showing his teeth as he emphasized the next words, "Not. Enough. Gun."

"So that's my saving grace?" he asked, his hands on his waist, "You shoot me but I don't die?"

Something twisted in Sam's face, whether in anger or desire or both, and he rushed Dean into the bottom bunk, out of sight of the witnesses on top.

They clung to each other as the bed buckled and swayed, not understanding anything Dean shouted and unable to make out whatever Sam was telling him, over and over in that strange voice of his like a litany of violence. And when it was over, much much later, and the boys had left, the girls reached out from the bed, and found it a good six inches away from the wall.


	35. Femme Fatale

**We now interrupt this story for some porn.**

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><p>Sam ran his finger down the row of jackets, the soft wool sighing under his touch. "Dean, you find anything?"<p>

Dean parted the curtains of the changing room. "How do I look?"

Sam turned and almost didn't recognize him. He was used to Dean plucking discarded shirts in the hotel parking lot, giving them a sniff, and declaring finders keepers. They always looked good on him, even that ones that had belonged to girls (though he suspected Dean liked to wear the pink camo shirt to tempt drunks into fighting him). Seeing his ass in a three piece suit nearly gave him wood.

"Looks like a tight fit." he said, biting his lips as the words left him.

"Looks okay to me." he said, flicking the lighter and squinting at his hair in the mirror. They were in another town hit by the storm, and when the Senator had called Sam about an interview with the local news, they'd broken into HOYT'S MENSWEAR AND HUNTING ACCESSORIES. "How bout you, find anything?"

Sam looked down at the jacket in his arms. "Yeah, but it looks weird. I'm too tall for the boy's sizes, but my ass is swimming in most of the men's slacks."

"Oh she won't care, just pick something." said Dean, grabbing a pair of pants off the rack at random.

"You don't have to come with me if you don't want," said Sam, "It'll only take twenty minutes, you could hang at the bar."

"Oh no," said Dean, grabbing his waist and pulling him close, the flame bringing out the shadows under his eyes, "Tits ain't getting you alone."

"Don't call her that." Sam whispered.

Dean smiled, and let him go, removing the jacket and rolling up his sleeves. Sam eyed the lines of his back, his wide-set shoulders, and swallowed. "So you like the suit?"

Sam looked away and laughed. "It's a good pick. Straight out of a detective novel, makes you look..."

"Makes me look what?" he asked, turning back around.

Sam blushed "...cold."

"Uh huh." said Dean, moving back towards him, slowly until Sam's legs bumped into a bench by the shoe rack and he sat down hard. Dean knelt before him, placing his hands flat on either side of the bench, as close to Sam's face as his next breath. "Nervous?"

"What, the interview?" Sam asked, voice shaking slightly, "Whatever, I'm not scared of a camera."

"But as soon as we're done, we leave, right?"

Sam nodded slightly, their mouths very close now. "Right."

Dean traced the ring on Sam's hand. "Can you see me?"

"Not really," Sam said, "It's so dark here."

Dean unhooked Sam's belt. "How bout now?"

Sam understood the question. Who do you see in your mind's eye when the clothes come undone, when a practiced mouth closes down on you and you can barely hold onto the cheap plywood furniture holding you upright?

Dean's mind wandered as he worked, hoping that if Sam showed up drained he'd stay out of trouble.

_The Senator wouldn't have to work hard to get Sam. A few glasses of wine, the offer to share a cab, and once the door clicked her shirt would open, the most perfect tits on display pointing straight at him, nipples red and wet from whatever flunkie she'd tortured five minutes ago. And that sort of thing didn't count, heck she had her legs crossed, nothing would come of it. And he did want to make her happy, right?_

_She'd lay a hand in his hair, guiding his mouth to her, and he'd be too drunk to think of a reason why not to, not when she was so soft and warm. And when he was firmly latched she'd make a little circle motion with her finger to the driver, and they'd cruise around town for a good hour until Sam lost track of time, lost in his task of getting her wet, pausing only to switch when she tugged at his hair. She doesn't speak, only looks down at him with a cold, cruel smile._

_When the cab finally stops in front of her flat, she invites him in for another drink, insisting that they have the place to themselves. Once they're in her bedroom, she hands him the bottle, though he can barely stand up straight. And she tells him what a good boy he's been, and that she wants him to make her happy, but certainly doesn't want to ruin him. And seating herself primly on the edge of the bed she insists that he jerk off, right there in front of her, as a precaution. Part of him wants to run, but she's more than twice his age, she must know what she's talking about, and she makes the request sound so reasonable as she clasps her knees with her manicured hands. It hardly takes him any time at all, not when she's right there, not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in her linen dress, waiting him out. Once he comes, she asks him for a second time, and he does it, even manages a third time, though by then he's very sore._

_Once he's done, she begins to undress, until she's down to a thin slip and her high heels, and she asks him to lay beside her on the bed, where he fears he will pass out. She likes him so much, and could he kiss her while she helps herself? Her hand slips between her own firm brown thighs, her tongue tastes sweet and clean. Soon his mouth is guided back to her breasts, and she takes one of his hands and slips a finger inside of her, for that is all that will fit. She has discerning tastes, and is not well used, and his cock jumps as she closes down on him. She trusts him, knows he won't do anything unless she gives permission first, says she can't finish without him, and maybe he could just run his cock against her?_

_She is slick and swollen, her clit peaking out like a pink rabbit nose, and sliding against her almost undoes him as she stares at him, flushed cheeks and breasts bouncing gently. She digs her nails into his scalp and pushes his face into her breast, and the sounds she makes speeds his desire, running his cock against her poison rose, and he finds his hands reaching under her knees and snaking around to raise her hips. Normally he would have come by now, but she's emptied him so thoroughly that he is afraid the end is nowhere in sight. After an eternity of this, she grabs his cock, insisting she only needs the tip, and that it didn't count and would not get him in trouble, over and over she says this until he begins to believe her._

_He obeys, his head on fire as he maintains control over that one aching inch, opening her over and over again. She's dripping on the sheets, moaning his name, and finally she presses her hands against his hips and guides him slowly inside, remarking what a big boy he is, until she is stretched over him, smiling as he hits the buzzer deep inside. Her cunt crushes him, wanting to feel every inch as he slides out very slowly. She wants to be cleaned out, scraping inside of her as she pushes and pulls at him like a living toy._

_She's unlike any girl he's ever had. Not just a great body, but a mind like a steel trap, totally in control, and in a strange chivalrous way he craves her good favor, knows he can hang on and stay hard to make her happy. That if he can do that one thing she'll ask him back in the future, keep him on like a loyal pet, standing sentry by her office door until she has need of some deep dicking._

Sam was close now, and the picture changed in Dean's mind, so that it was him standing by the Senator, the cameras flashing as she placed a possessive hand on his shoulder.

_"Senator, how did turn such a troubled young man into someone we can all be proud of?"_

And as his mouth filled with the taste of sour pennies, his knees aching on the rough carpet, Dean heard her smile and say, _"He knows his place."_


	36. Promise Rings

**What's a political storyline without our favorite White House intern?**

* * *

><p>Dean leaned against the wall, the hallways empty save for the security guard by the press room entrance and a table laden with the Senator's re-election propaganda.<p>

"The heck?" he muttered, plucking a paperback nearest him. While most politicians stuck to flyers and lapel pins, the Senator had commissioned a slew of romance novels aimed at her constituency, the _Heartland Brothers _series. He turned to a random page.

_"I love you Betty, I do," said Harold, clutching the flag to his chest, "But I love the Party more."_

He snorted and looked up. Posters for sale hung in neat black frames, all depicting beautiful young boys with executive haircuts and pillowy lips. One boy stood defiantly on a mountaintop, gazing into eternity as his shirt flapped open to reveal a flash of belly button. Another boy stood knee-deep in water, stripped to the waist with an AK-47 slung over one shoulder as he carried a kitten to safety. But the one that stood out most was of three boys in suits, similar enough to be blood, the outer boys tugging open the shirt of the one in the middle. All the posters read the same at the bottom: I VOTE

"I know all those guys," said a voice near him, "They've been photoshopped to shit."

Dean looked round, into a pair of electric blue eyes beneath a shock of black hair. "I know you?"

The boy smiled, but it vanished quickly. "Probably not," he said, "I've been out of the country for a while."

"Name's Dean." he said, holding out his hand.

"Misha," he said, glancing at the security guard and deciding he didn't he give a fuck, "You like Wild Turkey?"

Dean smiled at the proffered flask and took a swig. "You an intern?"

"Sort of," he said, taking a long drink for himself, "I'm one of her Junior Achievers. Just got back from Haiti, trying out my new business model."

"Who does business in Haiti?"

"Construction companies," said Misha darkly, "My father wanted me to get a foot in the door with the Senator, so I proposed a business model where state construction companies could bid on who got to rebuild Haiti's schools, hospitals, offices, right?"

"Well that sounds pretty damn cool actually." said Dean, impressed, "Did it make money."

Misha took another draft, and his voice dropped ominously. "We made millions."

Dean was about to ask more when the press room doors swung open and several anonymous-looking girls scuttled out with a TV on a rolling tray. "Hey, are they done in there?" Misha asked.

"They're live," one whispered, "Senator wanted us to take notes out here for editing." Where the boys advertised on the wall were tossled and sensual, the girl interns were pin-perfect and frumpy, all long skirts, long hair, tennis shoe worker bees.

"We get to watch Sammy?" Dean asked, nervous for him all of a sudden.

"Ssh." one of them said, a finger at her lips, and Sam's face appeared on the moniter, seated in a high-backed chair across from a local journalist.

"So you just arrived from Crabbe County, that's correct?" the journalist asked.

"Yes." Sam replied, very much at his ease despite all the cameras. After a lifetime around guns, a Canon was hardly going to frighten him.

"Do you feel the government has done it's utmost for the youth there?"

"I...have my own opinions." he said, his brows knitting. He had seen the posters in the hallway on his way in, and the message rankled within him.

"The Senator has worked hard to preserve the innocence of-"

"There's nothing patriotic about the sexualization of children," Sam fired back, a flush creeping into his face, "That fiasco in Crabbe, the media played to the public's fantasy of a bunch of high schoolers having secret gangbang parties, and you all spun the syphilis outbreak story so hard that those kids are never going to have normal lives now."

"You think Americans have fetishized teenagers?"

Sam stared at him, voice gone cold. "I think America has turned into a culocracy."

"What's a kool-aid-cracy?" Dean whispered to Misha.

"Culocracy," Misha corrected him, a smile toying at his lips, "Governed by the desire for ass."

"So you're advocating celibacy?" the journalist asked.

"Don't be an idiot," Sam snapped, "I'm asking our government not to cheapen sex."

His voice softened, and Dean could tell he was lonely. "I'm not perfect, but... I know that out there, there's someone who loves me, who's willing to work around my flaws. What young people need is an open, honest discussion of that fact, that love isn't something you can boil down into a slogan."

"So how would you put love in your own words?"

Sam thought for a moment, looking over his own track record. "Every one according to his ability," he said, the camera cutting to his hands, where he unconsciously kneaded the ring with his thumb, "Every one according to his need."

"Wow," Misha whispered, leaning in to Dean's ear, "Your friend is hardcore."

Dean looked at him sideways. "What are you talking about? He's not even old enough to vote."

Misha raised his eyebrows. "You don't know?"

"He's just like Harold in _The Eagle's Promise_," sighed one of the girl interns, "When he vowed his eternal love for Jeffrey."

Dean laughed, but stopped short at the look on Misha's face. "You're kidding," he said, "I thought neo-cons were allergic to The Gay."

"Nope," said Misha, shaking his head, "The G.O.P. wants to soften their image."

"_This_ is softening their image?" Dean asked incredulously, pointing at a poster.

"Ah, but did you look at their hands?"

Dean furrowed his brow, trying to catch what he was referring to. "Nothing's wrong with their hands."

Misha laid a finger on one of the brothers in the poster. Glinting atop a fistful of designer shirt shone a simple silver ring.

"Promise rings." Misha explained.

"What's that mean?"

"It means that the party can advertise anything they want, so long as traditional values are in the mix," said Misha, shooting the noble virgins a dirty look, "An abstinent fag is a safe fag. Those guys could be naked and covered in whipped cream bikinis, and it would be cool so long as they wore those rings."

"You have GOT to be kidding me," said Dean, "That's what they think Sam's going on about? That he supports this..." he gestured, at a loss for words.

"The party is not known for their sense of irony." Misha deadpanned.

"You shouldn't joke," reprimanded one of the girls, "Your Haiti model's gonna be on CNN this week, this could get you a place in the White House."

Misha sniffed loudly and looked her squarely in the eye. "You know the first thing I saw when our plane landed?"

She shook her head.

"I saw a five-year-old boy drinking out of a mud puddle," he said, his eyes stinging, "Most of those people are living in the stone age. They don't need air-conditioned waiting rooms. They don't need IPads. They don't need our second-hand khakis. They need water that didn't come out of some crony's bootprint."

Dean laid the book down on the table. "Is that why you're here?" he asked, "To ask the Senator to help those people?"

"I'm gonna try," he said, looking up as the press crew exited the room, "Here she comes."

But Dean had eyes for only one person. "Sammy?"

Sam looked up, and the hard exterior he'd put on for the camera fell away. "Dean," he said, breathlessly, taking his hands, "Let's get out of here."

"Uh uh," said two of the girls, grabbing his arms, "The Senator needs you for tomorrow night. We need to get your measurements."

"What's tomorrow night?" Dean asked, as Sam was hurried along to a different room, "Will someone answer my question?"

"In here Mister Winchester."

His heart skipped a beat. She looked as good as she had in his unbidden daydreams, the home-grown girl who drank to forget the taste of squirrel, on friendly terms with four-star generals, who could value a bottle of wine in dollars _or_ lira.

The Senator was seated behind an expensive desk free of clutter, a miniature of a Pony Express rider set by a drawstring lamp. Her pen scracthed across a pile of forms. Around her sat all of the faces Dean had just seen mounted on the wall outside, all dressed in polos and khakis, lounging about the office in various states of repose like a Red State harem.

"Ah Sam," she said, not bothering to look up, "Good of you to drop in, I was hoping you might be available to linger in our company another day or two. Harold?"

"Yes ma'am?" one of the boys answered, standing to attention.

"Take Sam to my tailor. I hate renting tuxedoes, there's something..." she paused, searching for the right word, "...unwholesome about sharing with strangers."

"Wait, no!" said Sam, as he was shuffled away.

"He's not your mascot," Dean said, the exit blocked as he tried to follow, "You can't keep him here."

Misha stood behind the Senator, eyes wide and shaking his head at Dean in a silent warning.

"You'll see him in an hour," she said calmly, as Sam's voice faded down the hall, "I've arranged for you to have a room next to mine this evening."

"He ain't stickin' around." said Dean, rushing up to the desk.

A sickening crack sounded in his left ear, and suddenly the room turned ninty degrees and he was facedown with six guns pointed at the back of his skull._ Of course they're packing heat._ he thought belatedly. The big one, the Kitten Rescuer, looked the most relaxed with a piece in his hand, and Dean guessed he had a military background.

"Your cooperation is appreciated Mister Winchester," she said, her pen still scratching, "Girls, see that he is made useful. I'm sure you can find something for him to do in Recreations."

"But...but we thought we could have a break from working on that." one of the girls asked tremulously.

"The Hell House is necessary," the Senator said, an edge to her voice, "I expect your best efforts."

"But the ball...aren't the girls invited as well?" one of the other interns asked. She was a dishwater blonde whose eyebrows disappeared into her forehead, with an unfortunate nose and dark gums.

The Senator cast them a critical eye, as if they were strays caught licking their own sick-up. She had no patience for the unfuckable. "The Chastity Ball is a haven for those who might attract sexual predators," she said, checking off a tiny box on her form, "I think your hymens are safe."

"She has a point," Misha piped in, "They've been giving up their weekends for the past month, can't they have-"

Two of the boy interns stopped him, grabbing his arms so a third could punch him in the breadbasket, and he pitched over beside the desk. Dean shouted, but the boot on his face kept him in place, and soon Misha was curled up in a ball, trying not to throw up.

"Did you forget everything I worked for back in Crabbe County?" the Senator asked, standing up, her voice very low, "You can't sell safe sex," she said, punctuating her words with a pointed shoe in the ribs, "If they aren't scared of sex in the first place."

"The Haiti funds are in my name," she said, bending over to lift him by the hair, "You will help them get the Hell House in order before the dance tomorrow night, or I'm dumping all your money into Greek penny stocks. Do you understand?"

He opened his mouth, but no words came out, so he nodded. She seemed satisfied, and motioned to the girls to deal with him.

"As for you Mister Winchester," she said, re-seating herself, "I would limit myself to fruitful labor over the next few days if I were you."

"I ain't interested in your cult of personality." he said, earning him a dig in the face that he'd feel when he brushed his teeth that night.

"Will you look at that," she said, glancing around the room with a smile, "He read a book."

The boy interns laughed at the joke.

"You have a record," she said, back to business, "A few words in the right ear and you'll be spending the night in a county detention cell. Is that really in Sam's best interest?"

He swallowed. This was her territory, her rules. "No ma'am."

"Fast learner," she said, "Keep an eye on this one, the Washington brass will want some extra muscle in the coming days."

"Get up." said Harold, and Dean and Misha were shoved into the hall where a girl with a clipboard stood by nervously.

"Ah," she said, squeaking a little at so much beefcake all at once, "Soooo you're helping with Hell House?"

"I am now." Dean replied miserably.

"Well there's not much left to do," she said, walking toward the back entrance, "I guess we could use someone in lighting though."

"What's a Hell House anyway?" he asked, pushing open the doors into the afternoon light.

* * *

><p>"Am I supposed to be scared?" Dean asked, walking past the open doorways.<p>

The girls had converted an old school into a series of frightening tableaus. At least, what had been approved as frightening according to the official party handbook.

"I mean come on," he said, holding out a hand, "Glue sniffers?"

Inside, a dark-haired mannequin in a trenchcoat was accosting a Fair Flower of Girlhood, a slimy trail trickling out of his left nostril.

"And this, what the hell is this?" he asked, pointing to another room where four mannequins sat around a table littered with ten-sided die and pizza boxes.

"Gamers," she said, shaking her head sadly, "Poor schmucks."

"Why do they have such bad teeth?" Dean asked.

"Because the party surveys show that they jerk off more often than they brush their teeth." Misha answered drily.

"All they do is masterbate," the girl said pittingly, "Where are they supposed to find a job?"

Misha mulled this over. "YMCA?"

"You're not gonna scare anybody with this," Dean said, "Who's in charge of this operation?"

The girl pursed her lips, and Dean realized his gaffe. "What I meant to ask was," he said quickly, "What are you getting out of this? Out of helping the Senator?"

"I want to get into a good school," she said, hugging her clipboard, "She can pull strings for me."

"And what if she doesn't get re-elected?" Misha asked coldly, "You really think she's gonna do you any favors?"

She looked away, but Dean took her arm gently. "Look, I dunno what that bitch's plans are for Sammy, but they can't be good. I know what scary looks like, and if we do this right we can _really_ screw her over."

She considered his offer, chewing her lip. She couldn't see Misha's bruises, but she could imagine what those jerks were capable of when there were no witnesses. "What do you suggest?"

He looked her up and down, and smiled. "Ever considered a career in theater?"

* * *

><p>"You're out of your mind." said Misha, shuffling the index cards in his hands.<p>

"Shut up and deal already."

Misha laid out three cards at random, turning them face up for Dean to read. "Naked. Horde. Cannibal." he said, tapping a pencil against his lips as he attempted to cast the dishwater blonde intern, "Congratulations, you're the Cannibal Queen of the Naked Amazon Horde. You should be able to get a bikini out of this." he said, tossing her a fake tiger skin rug.

"Where do you get these ideas?" Misha asked as the next two girls in line approached.

"Stag magazines," Dean replied, looking at the next three cards, "Communist. Orgy. Torture. Congratulations, you and your friend are now Communist torturors capturing American soldiers for your midnight orgies. Your shirts will be allowed one button apiece."

"You think this'll scare people?" Misha asked.

"Why should the boys have all the fun?" asked Dean, a wicked smile playing at his lips, "I'm a big believer in gender equality."

* * *

><p>Hours later, night had fallen, and Dean was shown to his hotel room. Sam stood up the moment he entered, and rushed into his arms.<p>

"You're hurt." he said, laying a hand gently on his bruises.

"Never mind, what happened with you after you left?"

"Nothing really," Sam admitted, "They fitted me for a suit and locked me in here afterwards, to talk about this." He held up a folder.

"We should leave, this doesn't feel right."

"We can't," Sam insisted, "It's a police report, look."

"What, she wants us on a job?" Dean asked, as Sam walked over to the bed where several photos were scattered.

"In the last week there's been four deaths," Sam began, "All within a mile of here, all done in the same way."

"How's this our business?"

Sam said nothing, and handed him the coroner's report. Dean snatched it away, scanning it, and then, slowly, going back to reread it. By the end of the page, his face had gone completely white.

"What the hell does _that_ to it's prey?" Dean asked quietly.

"I don't know," Sam answered, scooping up the papers, "But the Senator gave this to me this afternoon, she asked if we could look into it."

"We only have one gun."

"She can get us more."

"I hate her."

"So do I."

Dean looked up, imagining Sam on a mortician's slab, and hugged him from behind. "She's not telling us everything." he whispered.

"I know, but there's going be more journalists at the event tomorrow, and I want to be there." he said, remembering all the kids they'd run across in the last few towns, the dog food rations the Senator had provided them with before hitting the road.

Dean smirked. "You looked good on camera."

"Thanks," Sam said, smiling, "You think people will understand a word I said?"

"Culocracy? The hell'd you learn that?"

"You always sucked at Latin." said Sam, turning around to lay a hand on his face, the ring cool against his skin.

"She's gonna trot you out for that Promise Ring crap of hers," said Dean, as Sam pressed against him, "Does that mean you gotta promise to behave?"

"No," Sam said, reaching to turn out the light, "It just means I'm promised."

Dean listened to him unbutton his shirt. "Didn't think you'd be in the mood..."

Sam took his face in both hands, sucking at his mouth greedily. "I haven't stopped thinking about you," he whispered, a knee between Dean's legs, "And then she gave me that folder..."

_Ah_. Dean thought. Dangerous jobs always brought out the romantic in Sam, in a sick sort of way.

Dean felt for the bed in the dark, turning on the side lamp. "I want to see you."

Sam gave a little sideways smile. "Who else would I be?"

Dean left the question unanswered as he was pushed to the mattress, Sam grabbing his shoes and flinging them to the carpet. His pants followed suit, and soon their clothes littered the floor as they found their way between the sheets, Sam legs wrapped tightly around his waist.

He lay Sam beneath him, cheeks flushed against the pillow, a wicked glitter in his eyes as Dean knelt between his legs. "Give me your hand." he whispered.

He took his hand in his left, bringing the fingers to his mouth, pressing them to his tongue until they shining with slick. "I need you," he said, tilting his chin up for a kiss, "Don't you need it too?"

Dean looked down at him, this dark nymph, wondering if he would ever be this turned on by horrors, and said, "Don't ask stupid questions."

He worked himself with his right hand, slowly until he was hard against Dean's belly, and grabbing his neck he brought him down for a kiss while a hand searched him between his legs. Sam's breath hitched as he was invaded, a wanton smile spreading across his face.

"More, I need more." he said, burying Dean's face in his neck, "I want the whole building to know, fucking give it me already."

Dean slid his arms under Sam's knees, driving himself deep inside, and Sam's head bounded against the headboard as his eyes shut. Soon they were panting in time together, lost in the familiar rhythm.

"Don't be scared," Sam whispered, reading the tension in Dean's shoulders, "They won't take me away from you."

When Dean showed signs of wearying, Sam shook his head, "No no no don't stop now, I need this."

"Well what-"

"The desk," Sam hissed, "Take me to the desk."

Dean lifted him into the air and carried him across the room, where Sam's hands slammed flat on top as he was taken from behind. Beneath him, the desk rocked and the photos, nightmares made flesh, fluttered to the carpet.

"Your nails," said Sam, grabbing Dean's hands and placing them atop ribs, "Here."

Dean knew what he was after, and he hoped it would be enough to keep Sam from chasing after the real deal tomorrow. "Like this?"

"Yeah." Sam said breathlessly, working himself as Dean pounded into him, fingers digging into him hard enough to draw blood, "Oh fucking hell you are so good, don't stop."

"You close?"

"Yeah don't...fuck go faster please go faster..."

He sped up, hips snapping into him, and as the boy's voice pitched higher and higher, he could feel his own end coming, unable to hold back, and as they crashed into each other, Dean wondered fleetingly if the Senator was listening to them next door.

* * *

><p>The Senator swirled the wine in her glass, listening to them next door. Housekeeping was going to give her hell in the morning, those desks weren't cheap.<p>

A soft knock alerted her, and she turned to the door where an envelope was tucked under the gap. Bending down to take it, she opened the letter and smiled at the contents.

"St. Joseph's? Room 122?" she asked over the phone. She trusted the boys to get the job done, but she needed insurance. Nothing was going to ruin the campaign.

"Hello, John?" she said, looking at her bed thru the prism of her Chianti, "It's been an age."


	37. Hell House

"You've done this sort of thing before?" asked Misha, as Dean checked himself in the mirror.

"Does Amateur Night count?" he said, licking his hair into place. He'd never been in a Hell House, much less emceed one, but he had good memories of Fetish Night at that one dive in Toledo, and he assumed they ran along the same lines.

"The Senator left one of her dogs outside," said Misha, peeking out the window at the armed thug idly circling the crowd, "She's been pretty skiddish about security lately."

"There's a loose cannon running around," he said, trying not to itch at his starched collar, "Me and Sam are keeping an eye peeled for him."

"And how're you gonna do that and run this carnie show at the same time?" Misha asked sharply, "Where is Sam anyway?"

"Sleeping," said Dean smugly, his jaw still tired from making sure Sam didn't try to pursue the monster on his own, "How do you do a tie?"

"There's no way you can keep everyone safe on your own," said Misha, looping the tie around his neck for a square knot, "There are hundreds of people outside-"

"Hundreds of _girls_," Dean corrected him, "The guy everybody's looking for only goes after boys. So unless you're plannin' on stealin' away into the night..."

A knock came at the door, and a girl intern stuck her head in. "We're ready when you are.'

Dean turned to Misha and smiled. "Showtime."

"I have to go change," said the intern, handing a cordless microphone to Misha, "Will you give this to him?"

Misha nodded, scanning the crowd as he followed Dean to the podium. The Senator had attracted a huge following in the past few years. The lawn brimmed with upwardly mobile Ivy League business majors who had never in their lives worried about the price of organic fruit or let a Dorito pass their lips. They dabbed themselves with hankerchiefs, sweating like cut flowers in the summer heat.

"I don't think you're gonna get far with this crowd." Misha whispered in his ear.

"See that one in the navy pantsuit?" Dean asked, tilting his chin in that direction, "And the lavender dress? And her friends with the AM radio hair?"

"Yeah?"

"Vibrators in the purse," said Dean confidently, "These chicks are _thirsty_ my friend, by the time I'm done they ain't gonna have room in their hearts for no swishy fishes in promise rings." _And the Senator will look like a whoremaster when these girls all run home and tell their daddies what they saw tonight._ he thought.

"Not so loud." Misha muttered, the armed thug a few feet away, silver ring glinting over his 9mm.

"Llllllllladies," drawled Dean into the microphone, "You are all looking well this evening."

Titters floated across the air.

"Whoo it is _hot_ out here, ya'll don't mind if I take off my jacket do ya?" he asked.

One of the girls in the front row pressed a white gloved hand to her neck, mesmorized as Dean slowly stripped off the jacket and folded it over a chair. He licked his lower lip. The next part would be tricky, but he'd been subjected to a lot of talk radio in his life so far, so the vocabulary was there.

"It does my heart good to see so many lovely faces," Dean continued, unbuttoning a sleeve, "To see the future of this great nation smiling back at me."

"Ya see, I've got a lot of pride in this country," he continued, stepping into the crowd, rolling up his other sleeve to reveal a tanned forearm, "And I believe that it's because of citizens like you that we remain a powerful presence in modern society, that we're able to strike fear into the heart of our enemy."

"But there are forces working against us," he said, loosening his tie, and a couple of girls shuddered as he brushed past them, "I don't want to alarm you, but there are things you need to see."

"And I won't lie," he said, locking eyes with a leggy number in taffeta, "They didn't want me to show you what's behind that door. Restricted in eight states, banned in five more, what you're about to see will...well, it'll shock you."

"Yes." the girls whispered in chorus.

"It'll burn you up inside."

"Yes." they said louder.

"It'll make you so angry you'll wanna curse a blue streak."

"Yes!" they shouted.

"And the truth," he said, inches away from Miss Taffeta, "Is a hard thing to take."

She had been chilly for most of his speech, but this close up she began to wilt, unwillingly looking him up and down as he loosened his tie.

"Now I can't make you do anything," he said, gently taking her hand in his hand, placing it on the knot at his throat so his adam's apple pulsed against her skin, "But the perils before us require great fortitude of spirit, and I can't do this alone."

"You are stronger than they say you are. Don't walk away now," he said, pulling away gently, her finger caught so that she began to sway toward him, "Don't hide your blushing eyes."

And with that, the double doors opened behind him, fog machines whirring at full tilt in the darkened hallway.

"Our first stop," he said, pointing to a door with a sign reading LIBERAL ARTS, "Is a window into the _true_ nature of the public education system, where the youth of America are transformed into man-hungry lolitas, only out for their twisted kicks."

Seated in a plastic chair, a mannequin with a sponge for a head sat in a football uniform, a blank canvas resting on an easel beside him. The face on the head had been done in sharpie, with three circles for the eyes and mouth and a triangle nose. A girl in a catholic school uniform bounced on his lap, pigtails flying as she moaned rediculously, while a second dressed in a smock and black beret stood nearby with a baseball bat.

"Fuck her 'arder!" ordered the art teacher in a dreadful French accent, "Fuck her in her hot, tight hole!"

"Oh Madame, he's coming inside of me!" cried the schoolgirl.

"What?" said the art teacher, eyebrows furrowed, "Such insolence! I will teach you to disobey!"

And lifting the bat over her shoulder, she gave the mannequin head a healthy whack, red Kool-Aid spraying all over the canvas. Behind Dean, a few of the girls shrieked, though the majority of them were watching the tableau in silent wonder. He smiled to himself.

"Don't get too close to this next one, for she's a danger to herself." he said, pointing to a door labeled JUVENILE DELINQUENTS, "Locked away for trading teenage male sex slaves in the South Pacific, the criminal justice system has allowed her to linger in capitivity where she and her followers flout authority with their secret sex rites. May I present...the Venus of Alcatraz!"

Inside, several girl interns gyrated to thumping music inside steel cages, prison jumpers cut away to reveal miles of thigh and cleavage. In the center of the room, a mannequin in a police jacket was bent face-up on a table with his arms pinioned by two other girls while the Venus straddled him with a riding crop. "I am the Princess of Pain!" she shouted, giving him a crack in the face, "And my bitches demand satisfaction!"

The rest of the tour was equally enlightening, and he was impressed that the interns had dug up so many mannequins to play the boy parts. HIGH UNEMPLOYMENT showed a chain gang of white collar workers being whipped by a buxom intern. MINORITIES had a circle of cannibal headhunters ripping the clothes off a muscular sailor to present to their fur bikini queen. And TERRORISM had two KGB girls torturing a soldier by forcing him to take turns licking their panties. By the time Dean led everybody to the last room, the air was thick with Lady Speed Stick.

"And finally," he said, turning to face them, "We face perhaps the most familar danger to modern society, the one we like to think we've become too civilized to speak of in polite company."

He pointed to the door, the sign reading PRE-MARITAL SEX. Inside, someone was yelling "no no no stop".

"Now if you think you need to walk away and have a quiet moment to yourself, I won't think less of you," he said, pressing a hand to his chest, secretly hoping some of them would sneak away for a quick rub-out in the bathroom, "But this next part is most pertinent to what the Senator has been trying to teach us. That your bodies are precious, that you should not be led by your desires, that-what are you doing out here?"

The crowd turned to follow his gaze, a girl intern in a hot pink tube top and ten pounds of fake silver jewelry. She blinked at them apologetically. "I had to pee."

"Then who's in there?" he asked, jamming a thumb at the door.

Her jaw dropped, at a loss for words, and Dean's head whipped around. "Where's the security guy?"

"He-he asked to come with me," said the intern, "He said he heard something down here and wanted to look around..."

Dropping the microphone, he grabbed the doorknob, cursing to find it locked. "Run for help," he said to Misha, "Everyone else stand back." He retreated a few steps and heaved his shoulder into the door, the voice behind it getting louder as furniture crashed and a weirdly liquid hiss filled the air.

"Hang on, we're comin' for ya!" Dean shouted, giving the door another crack. The security guy was hysterical now, and bullet holes riddled the wall as he squeezed off a few rounds. The girls screamed, and Dean wondered vaguely how it would feel to be stampeded by so many Italian stilettos.

"Hold your fire, you're gonna be okay, you're gonna be-" he said, the door caving in on the third try, his words of comfort drying up on his tongue.

The security guy was typical of the Senator's taste, a body carved out of wood with a face like a Botticelli. His polo shirt was all over bloody, his khakis torn in the back, his gun kicked to the side. He faced the audience, slack-jawed and unseeing as three sets of claws dug into his sides, his ribcage, his skull, the monster's face opening to revealed teeth spiraling all the way down as its hips rose and fell against the poor kid's pink ass. Slowly, the thing's belly inflated as it drained the boy, until it was raping a leathery bag of bones, and his claws came away with an awful sucking noise before rounding on Dean.

"Oh you wanna play that game?" Dean challenged, sounding much braver than he felt. The gun was only a few feet away, if he could just get to it, give everybody enough time until real help arrived...

The girls had all run shrieking from the building, and one of the KGB interns had stuck her head around the corner when the monster lunged. Dean clocked it with a chair, stunning it. "Get everybody out!" he shouted to her.

Diving for the gun, he slid across the floor, grabbing it with both hands and bringing it up right as the creature made a move for him, splattering the ceiling with pink goo as it took a bullet to the brain.

"Fuckin' die already!" he shouted as the thing slowed but did not stop. Another shot to the head, and it clutched at it's eye, shaking itself back and forth in pain.

"The police are coming!" Misha shouted down the hallway.

"Stay back!" Dean shouted over his shoulder, but the creature had decided he was a bad deal. Hoisting it's meal over it's shoulder, it tossed itself out the window and disappeared into the night, leaving Dean alone in a fake bedroom littered with gore and stuffed animals.

He let his arms drop, suddenly exhausted. "Holy shit that was close."

"Lose the weapon!"

He heard the familiar click of several safetys going off at once, and dropped the 9mm. "Not interested in trouble officers," he said, putting his hands on his head, "Your man left thru the window, if you'll let me follow-"

"We'll take over from here," said a policeman, dropping a cuff on Dean's wrist, "You sound like you need the night off."

"But-"

"The Senator pointed you out," the cop explained, "Said you were up to no good."

Dean was about to make a crack when he looked around at all the girl interns in their costumes, dressed like pulp fiction wet dreams. It was damning evidence.

"What's going on?" asked Misha as Dean was trooped off into a squad car.

"Misha!" he shouted, twisting against the cuffs, "Keep an eye on Sammy!"

"She's not gonna get her hands on him." said Misha as Dean was stuffed into the backseat.

"Not the Senator, the-" he said, his words cut off as the door slammed. Dean tried to shout, but the window was soundproof, and Misha could not guess what his warning meant as the sirens blared down the gravel path.

"What happened in there?" one of the girl interns asked, shivering as the temperature dropped.

"Never mind," said Misha, putting a comforting arm around her, "You should clean up. The chastity ball will be starting any minute."


	38. Soldier Boy

**So there had been a blurb in the news recently how the GOP is considering softening it's stance on gays, and I got this idea of the neo-cons adopting a bunch of upstanding patriotic gay guys as party mascots, provided they remained abstinent until marriage.**

* * *

><p>Harold knocked on the door, Sam's tuxedo slung over his shoulder in a black garment bag. He looked up and down the hallway, and seeing that he was alone, he palmed the doorknob and found it unlocked.<p>

Sam and Dean been given a massive suite next to the Senator's, three bedrooms branching off from the main entrance. He tried the first one, a king-sized bed nearly hitting the door when it swung open. The second room was meant for a child, with a roll-away folded beneath the ironing board, and he wondered that the Senator thought the boys needed so much space. The third door...

His nose twitched at the empty pizza box. The hotel room smelled of grease and mouthwash and slept-in air, a pile of beer cans in the sink the only concession to neatness. He hung the tuxedo on a chair back and walked over to the bed, a ribbon of light spilling across the sheets from the cracked curtain.

"Time to wake up," said Harold, tapping a finger on Sam's shoulder, "Everyone's downstairs."

Sam muttered something into the pillow, but did not move. Impatient to see the Senator again, Harold grabbed the curtain and opened it to the parking lot lights, flooding the room with a sickly fluorescent. He turned, and his breath caught when he saw Sam, an unwilling heat creeping into his face. _ Just the right size_, he thought, eyes running the length of that slender body.

Sam stretched his arms over his head, twisting toward the light with a sheet around his hips. His cheeks had that sleepy flush, like the first peach of summer, dark hair curling against his neck, and his yawn was a half smile, relaxed and utterly fucked out. He still had his eyes closed, the red sheets a glowing contrast to his young body, but before Harold could get too close he turned away again.

"You gotta get dressed." he whispered, leaning over to Sam, not really wishing to be heard. Harold was a big guy, six foot three and probably seventy pounds on Sam, a web of thin white scars stretched over his knuckles from his stint in Kandahar, and he knew he could push the kid out of bed if he wanted to save time.

Harold hesitated, and then put a hand on Sam's shoulder to shake him, but his hand just lay there, amazed at how much heat the kid was giving off.

"Dean lemme..." Sam said feebly.

Harold wasn't sure what was meant by that, until Sam's left hand crossed over and clutched Harold's, pulling it onto his chest, sending an electric thrill thru him. It traced a line down his belly, blood pulsing slowly underneath, and Harold let his arm disappear under the sheet.

"I dreamed about it," Sam confided in a low rasp, "You ever have those chase dreams? Where it's so dark you don't know if they're behind you or in front?" Harold opened his mouth, but nothing came out, and Sam led his hand further down until they were pulled so close together that Harold's erection pressed against his back.

He had never been with anyone, much less climbed into bed with someone of experience. That had been part of the Senator's schtick, that the Heartland boys remained untouched, in every sense. Always sitting at least two feet from other people, never having a conversation more than fifteen minutes with co-workers, always kept busy, everyone keeping a watchful eye on everyone else for superficial mistakes that indicated deeper flaws. Some days it felt like a witchhunt. Even this negligible errand of delivering a suit on his on would be considered a risk.

Sam was only half hard, but it responded eagerly to Harold inexpert fingers, and he strained against the pillow. Harold still had both feet on the carpet, feeling that if kept that one rule he would be okay.

Harold went much slower and gentler then Dean ever had, not having any idea of what the hell he was doing, and Sam arched into his hand, reaching for Harold's collar until his mouth was buried in Sam's neck. The boy was sweaty from Dean's endless attentions, a day spent with a face in the kid's lap to keep his cock from pointing in the wrong direction.

Scared to leave a mark, he kissed him gently on the shoulder, afraid he would go too far and reveal himself. But Sam seemed to enjoy this new approach, his hips undulating beneath him, cock slipping in and out of his dry hand.

"I'm not that sore," Sam whispered, reaching to undo Harold's belt, "Just to take the edge off before the job tonight."

Harold shivered. He had been so focused on Sam's intimidating length that he had not considered this arrangement.

"I heard you jerking off in the shower," he whispered, "Come on, I'm not made of glass."

Harold was paralyzed, his cock sprung free in a matter of seconds. Sam was already penetrated, damaged goods, what would it hurt to take this bicycle for another spin?

Sam pressed the tip of his cock against his ass, a bead of clear slick leaving a trail. He closed his eyes, imagining Sam grabbing the headboard for him, of driving into him, his cock clutched at in appreciation.

He knew the Senator's strategy, he wasn't stupid. He wasn't just a party mascot, Harold was a symbol of hope. The hope that if he just met the right girl, if enough accomplished young ladies pinned him to a table and lifted their skirts and massaged his poor cock with their tight honey pie, he'd climb over to their side of the fence. But he was having none of it.

He took his hand away and reached down inside of Sam, the dark closing down on his finger. Sam was no rosebud. If Harold wanted to he could wollop into him, give him a right proper buggering, his nuts swinging against the kid's ass and knocking against each other like a convict breaking rocks. He'd keep it up until Sam gave the word, allowed to let the climax build with Sam's, rising up from the base of his spine to the tip of his cock buried deep within the boy until his orgasm was milked from him while Sam's cried another man's name.

"Don't worry about the creature, it doesn't mean anything," Sam whispered, reading the tension in Harold's body as something else, "I might not be your first..."

Sam ground against him, eager for more, and Harold let a little sigh escape his lips.

"...but I'll be your last."

And then Harold noticed the ring on Sam's hand, and panicked. _Not like this_. he thought, and his hand flew away.

"Dean?" Sam asked blearily, a chair crashing as Harold tripped over a table leg on his way out.

_Fucking hell_, he thought, the fear of getting caught suddenly overriding his desire as he straightened his clothes, _What if he tells her? The hell am I gonna say?_

He slammed the door behind him and made his way toward the exit, sniffing his jacket sleeve and finding it smelled like Sam. _Shit shit shit, what am I gonna do? _He steepled his hands against his mouth, staring at his reflection in the elevator doors. Except for a haunted look around the eyes, he looked no different.

He remembered the day he'd been fitted for this tuxedo, driven to a shop in Manhattan so upscale that you could be turned away just for swearing in front of the tailor. He'd been served a fragrant cup of tea, and all the men had asked his opinion on the war overseas, laughed at his story about the Afghani who'd tried to bribe him with a pack of cigarettes. Treated a fag with respect.

He closed his eyes and remembered the feel of Sam, and then of his boot on Dean's face the other day in the Senator's office, Dean the piece of hillbilly gristle who didn't deserve something so refined. Dean was in jail for the night, perhaps, later tonight...?

The elevator doors sprung open, and the men at the front doors smiled to see him again so soon. "The Senator has requested the first dance." one of them said.

Harold shot his cuffs and smiled back. "Who am I to refuse such lovely company?"


	39. Blood on the Dance Floor

The Senator spent the first hour of the Chastity Ball seated in a quiet corner to receive guests. She had an excellent memory for names, pressing hands and declaring they hadn't gained an ounce since she'd last seen them, thanking them for the jewelry they inevitably brought. Lifting her hair, one of the Heartland boys would affix it to her, and everyone would remark how well it suited her.

"Harold," she said as he entered, the music just starting, "Be a dear." She held out her hand for the first dance, her neck now dripping with pearls. Had Dean been present, he'd have made a jab on how old ladies and teenage boys will say anything for oyster fruit.

When she first entered the ballroom, everyone thought she was naked, until they realized she was wearing a flesh-colored gown that clung to her in a long sheath that swept about her heels, the last several inches dyed red. The girls all remarked at the cleverness of this choice, to represent the blushing flower, when really all they could think of was blood on the dance floor.

"Don't touch that." she snapped, slapping Harold's hair away from her hair, spread across her back in thick sweetheart curls. Harold made some joke, relieved she was too distracted by the ball to ask why he smelled like Sam Winchester.

Wallflowers lined the room as she took turns with each of the Heartland boys, the onlookers doing their own little dance where one girl would step forward to ask a boy to dance and ten more girls would smile viciously at her until she had rejoined the fold. A Puritan belief given a rockstar glamour, girls who might have grown up ignorant of desire suddenly had a glowstick jammed up their cunts that they were then told to ignore.

Sam watched all of this in cold fascination. _She's created an ass famine._

He rolled his shoulders inside of the tuxedo jacket, suprised at how well it fit. The Senator caught his eye, and she beckoned him with a gloved finger.

"You clean up well," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder as the band began a slow two-step, "Men are so lucky, I've been in the salon since noon," she said, swiping his cheek with her thumb, "All you have to do is shave."

"Do you ever leave your room without the get-up?" he asked, her make-up suddenly obvious this close up.

"I believe a good leader should always be camera ready."

"Speaking of which, when's the press due to arrive?" he asked, looking around.

"They're not," she said, hip swiveling beneath his hand as the music sped up, "I needed to speak to you, away from the others."

"You mean away from Dean?" he asked, trying to keep some space between them.

"I meant my boys," she said, glancing in their directon, "They're not gonna get the same offer."

"Whatever it is-"

"You want to help those kids?"

Sam slanted his eyes. "You have something in mind?"

"Come to Washington, with me," she said, "There's a place for a smart boy like you, you could have some real influence there."

"That's..." he hesitated, thrown for a loop.

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't have a good feeling about you," she said, "My boys are lovely, but they have no...practical experience."

"Thank you," he said, feeling all eyes on him, "But I have my own business to conduct here."

"And whose business is that?" she asked, "Dean looked like he didn't have two nickels to rub together."

"He takes care of me well enough." he said, fixing her with a hard stare.

"Ah," she said, smiling as she recognized the accusation in his eyes, "And I don't take care of my own, that's you're saying? Honey, all those kids you met along the way, they need my help. They just don't know it yet."

The folds of her dress dimpled here and there, allowing flashes of the undergarments she wasn't wearing, and though the heels made her taller, she looked up at him thru thick black lashes.

"And they won't ask for it until a crisis hits," she continued, hand warm on his, "Might be a storm, might be the death of a loved one, might be a trip to the emergency room."

The hem of her dress whirled about him as if they were wading thru blood, her breasts heavy against his heart, and feeling her in his arms he wished he could hate her more.

"But until they learn to beg, they deserve to roll in their own shit," she said in a low voice, tilting her head back so that he had to read her lips, "They are not desparate enough."

The music ended, and Sam laughed as he pulled her in close to whisper. "I wish I could follow you to the capital." he hissed.

She smelled expensive, and a part of him longed to join her at the top of the food chain.

"I wish I could go just so I could string you up on a meat hook and watch you rot til you burst like a ripe melon."

She blushed. Only Sam could make murder sound like a proposition, and all the fantasies she'd ever had about her teenage male aides rushed to her brain like a snort of cocaine, until she melted against him in unholy need.

"I wish...I wish..." he said, grabbing her hair. He couldn't wait out Dean forever. One boy was dead already, sooner or later he'd have to go outside and track that creature. And if he couldn't kill it he didn't know how long he could sit across from a cage, sweating like a man on death row before the craving set in.

"Sam..." she whispered, and when he kissed her his teeth came down hard, blood welling between them, and she was too well-bred to be frightened of how eager this made him as he pressed against her, crushing her in his arms until she choked for air.

But before she could think on this, he pushed her away, spinning on his heel, eager to have a gun in his hands.

* * *

><p>Dean leaned his head against the wall, shadows lengthening thru the bars of his holding cell. Just when he thought everyone had left for the night, he heard a flurry of activity in the main office.<p>

"Just what I always wanted," he said, several navy trenchcoats flapping toward him, "A flock of dicks."

"That's Agent Dick to you," said the man, flashing an ID, "We need to talk."

"Oh come on," said Dean, wincing as cuffs pinched his wrists, "That chick made her own fur bikini-"

"We're not here about your little circus act," said the agent, tipping his head to one side for Dean to follow, "Though you'll be happy to know that we kept the pertinent details out of the news."

Dean craned his neck, eyeing a copy of the evening edition on a secretary's desk, the headline shouting ABSTINENCE HORROR SHOW DRAWS IN DONORS.

"You're kidding." Dean said, as the agents wended up a stairwell.

"'Fraid not," said the agent, his voice echoing ahead of him, "We had to bring in state troopers for all the extra traffic coming our way. The Senator's gonna be opening a lot of checkbooks tonight."

They reached the top floor, turning a corner to the interrogation rooms, and the agent stopped to fish his keys out while Dean grit his teeth.

"You're in here." said the agent, holding the door open.

"I swear when I get my hands on that bitch-" Dean muttered to himself.

"You'll what?" asked another man.

He spun around as the door was shut one-handed. With Dean's back to the one-way mirror, he felt the man's eyes both on him and behind him, not even leaving him a corner to back into.

He swallowed, afraid his voice would crack. "John?"


	40. National Association of Man Boy Love

Sam didn't get two hundred yards before a meaty hand pinned him to the wall.

"What did she say to you?" asked Harold, low enough so that no one would come running. The boys stood around him in a semi-circle, feet apart and arms crooked to draw their weapons. A weak light shone thru the kitchen doors, the staff having clocked out hours ago.

"Doesn't matter," Sam replied hoarsely, thumb up against his windpipe, "I told her no."

"The Senator offered you a job?" asked one of the boys.

"Yeah," he admitted, "To work with her in the Capital."

"What, you didn't feel like being a kept man?" Harold snapped. The promise rings might have meant "Real Men Wait", but for years it had sounded like "Fuck Less, Work More", and he didn't appreciate having all his efforts pushed aside for trash who made for nice arm candy.

"I didn't come here to fight." said Sam.

"Yeah, but I bet it starts with the same letter." said Harold. He noticed the smear of blood on Sam's mouth, remembering that stolen moment in the hotel room earlier, and wished he hadn't thought to bring the other guys along.

"Look, there's something here on the grounds," said Sam, the ring of experience carrying in such a way that Harold paid attention, "It already killed one guy today, it'll do it again given a half a chance."

"What's this 'it'?" he asked.

Sam blushed, his cheek hot against the plaster. "Nothing good."

Something crashed to the tiles inside the kitchen, and Sam started. "The hell was that?" one of the boys asked.

Sam tensed, and Harold was too distracted to hold on when he pushed off the wall to free himself.

"Wait, is that the thing that killed Jeff?" asked one of the boys, stricken, "They say it fucks you and kills you. Or kills you _then_ fucks you."

"It must have found a back entrance." said Sam, ear pressed to the door, a wicked light dancing in his eyes, "The police file made it out to be really tall, it won't move easily in that kitchen." They stared at him, wondering which side of the door was more dangerous.

He made a satisfied little noise in the back of his throat, loosening the buttons at his wrists.

Sam stood straight, holding his palm up to Harold without looking at him, and said, with the same breathlessness with which a man might say _Take off your clothes_, "Give me your guns."

"How many?"

Sam smiled. "All of them."

"The fuck man, we don't know this guy," said one of the boys, staying Harold's hand, "This is some serious Looney Tunes shit."

"I'm not kidding guys, this thing'll stick a straw in you and suck you dry," said Sam, eyes still trained on whatever what was behind that door, "The guns. Now."

"You gonna listen to this little nutjob?" asked another boy, "We already sent his pyscho boyfriend to the clink, call the cops and have done with it."

Harold froze. Sam was a spooky kid, but Dean was no joke in a fight, and he didn't like the idea of looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life should Dean learn about Harold's little indiscretion.

"I got a better idea." said Harold, measuring Sam with his eyes, and nodding the boys gathered close.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked, a bit slow on the uptake as they grabbed his arms.

"Getting your friend that drink he ordered." said Harold, kicking the door open and tossing Sam inside.

"Let me out!" Sam yelled, banging on the doors with fists as the deadbolts snapped into place.

The boys laughed. For a second, he really had them going. _Monsters_.

"The doors won't hold it, get in here, we've got the numbers on our side!"

"Somebody probably lost a dog, gonna go feed it your bone?" one of the boys jeered thru the window.

"Bet she's never had a dick up her ass." said another.

"This isn't funny!" Sam shouted, the noises growing louder.

"Whatever, shut the fuck up Short Bus."

Sam backed away, anger twisting his features. "Fine," he hissed, turning away, "I'll do this myself."

He grabbed a wooden barstool and slammed it against the counter, splintering it easily. Pushing against one corner with his boot, he pried it apart until he had a jagged chair leg the length of his arm. Balancing it on his finger, he found it weighted evenly, and laid it down to remove his jacket.

Harold stared at his back, remembering how he'd looked in the dusty twilit air of the bedroom, all that warm flesh stretched out on the sheets like a piece of cake waiting to be eaten. But that boy had gone, fists doubled and heels dug into the floor like it might get away from him.

"I don't hear anything," one of the boys whispered, "Maybe we should-"

A shadow moved in the corner, and Sam dropped to one knee, overturning a table for a shield as something barrelled toward him and sent boy and furniture skidding across the room. The steel buckled in the middle, though whatever struck it was having a hard time getting up.

"The fuck..." Harold said, now certain they were in trouble. He'd once seen a marine show off by shoving a bowling ball in an air cannon and firing it at a steel panel, and even _that_ didn't manage as much damage as whatever Sam was now locked in with.

Sam bit his lip, counting his breaths and waiting for the creature to recover. A scaly hide whispered across the tiles as it knocked the table aside and drew itself up, teeth clacking in it's throat.

"A little closer..." Sam whispered, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Harold's heart stopped when he saw it clearly for the first time, leaping right for Sam, almost on top of him, when Sam held his arms out in a T and rolled backwards with his legs straight out, and lifted the thing right off the floor on the soles of his shoes. There was a moment of dreamy suspended weightlessness when they saw eye to eye, like two kids playing a game of Airplane, until Sam kicked the ugly fucker over his head and across the room.

They all jumped as the creature slammed into the door, the deadbolts groaning under the weight. Sam sprang to his feet, twirling the chair leg like a baton, dance music echoing down the hall like a bad memory.

"You're lucky I came alone," said Sam, as the thing mewled groggily, "Dean woulda killed you right away."

"But Dean's not here," he said, lifting it's chin with the pointy end of the stick, "And we got all night to get to know each other."

It pawed at him blindly, and his head snapped down, bounding off the floor with the stick pointing straight up. Blood sprayed across the glass, and Harold went pale as Sam drove deep into the creature's skull, pinning it to the door until it had a good six inches of wood buried in it's brain.

"What the hell's going on?" shouted Misha, hurtling around the corner.

"Somebody tell me there's a cage somewhere." said Sam, leaning against the open door. His suit was shiny with blood, and feeling he owed the kid something, Harold produced a handkerchief. Sam nodded and wiped his hands thoughtfully.

"They had a few cages for the Hell House," said Misha, confused, "But why-"

"Bring the biggest one you got," said Sam, twisting the handkerchief absently, staring at the floor, "We'll put it in the basement until we can figure out a way to kill it."

"Kill WHAT?" he asked, suddenly noticing the bloody window.

Sam did not reply right away. Finding a metal trashcan nearby, he tipped it over and sat down hard, exhausted and desparately needing Dean's company.

"Please just get the cage."

He nodded, looking to the others for an explanation, running when none came.

"Sam..." Harold began awkardly, "Look, about what I said earlier-"

"You mean, when you locked me in a room to die?" Sam asked, his voice unnatural.

"It wasn't like that-"

Sam shot up and grabbed him by the lapels. "I'm not interested in your excuses," he said, all business, "I did my part. I just want to find Dean and get out of this hick town."

"They send Dean to the detention center hours ago," said one of the boys, "He won't get out til morning."

"Hours?" said Sam, his brows knitting, "But he was just here. In my room before the-" And he stopped, slowly turning back to face Harold as it dawned on him.

"That was you," he whispered, baring his teeth, "That was _you_ in bed."

"Sam, y-y-you were asleep," he stuttered, feeling eyes on the back of his neck, "I wasn't gonna-"

Sam tossed him against the others. "Hold him."

"I didn't mean for it to happen!" Harold wailed as Sam led them into a deserted conference room down the hall, shutting the doors behind them, a single bulb burning over his head so his face was cast into shadow.

"Please Sam!" he said, as the others pinned him to the table, "I walked away!"

"That's true," said Sam, reaching inside Harold's jacket for the gun, "So I'm going to cut you a deal."

A click and the magazine dropped into his hand. "I'm not gonna tell Dean," he began, Harold shivering as Sam began popping bullets onto the carpet, "You wouldn't like to see him when he's jealous. He wouldn't shoot you but...he'd make a day of it."

"You on the other hand," he said, slamming the clip back into place, "There's something soft about you."

"You've got a military background," he said, letting the gun hang loosely by his side, "But you've never been shot."

"And I was raised with the belief that a man ought not carry his own gun," he said, the boys struggling to hold onto Harold now that he realized what he was in for, "Until he's taken a bullet first."

"No, please!" he shouted, as Sam lifted his leg to remove the boot. Sam noticed the pattern, the same as the bruise on Dean's face the other night, and he knew he was meting out justice.

"You saw a threat and you pushed a stranger in front of you," he said, tossing the boot aside and peeling back the sock, "No one likes a coward."

Harold looked up at his friends for mercy, but they had none. He had tasted forbidden fruit, and he was shut out from their sympathy.

"Trust me," said Sam, pressing the muzzle to the tender flesh above his heel, and for one brief moment wondering if this was how John felt when he first made a pass at Dean, "It'll make a man of you."

"Don't do this..." Harold pleaded, sorrier than he'd ever been in his life.

Sam breathed in, finger on the trigger. The blood buzzed in his brain from the fight, and thinking of Dean made his eyes sting.

"Please..."

Sam lowered his eyes, wishing Dean were there to take the gun out of his hand. To tell him the guy wasn't worth the bullet and haul him up to bed.

"Sam..."

He pressed the heel of his hand against one eye, head splitting with pain, and his gun hand fell away slightly, up to the boy's ankle. Harold looked up at him hopefully.

"You remind me of Dean," he said. Harold shivered at his touch, fingers climbing the thin fabric of his slacks.

"The first time I had him," said Sam, "He was asleep too. He thought I was someone else."

Harold stared at him, closer now, daring him to do it.

"I need Dean," Sam said softly, the gun a hard weight in his hand, resting his forehead on top of the boy's, "I need him right now."

His hair was matted with blood, the Senator's perfume a sharp note against the stink of death. Sam breathed into his mouth, the gun shaking slightly in his hand.

"Do it." said one of the boys.

Sam looked up, reading it the agreement in their faces. All the little sacrifices, the party invitations declined, the ginger ale instead of champagne, the hundreds of polite "no"s after those stupid romance novels came to light. One time they'd had a private meeting with Congressman Paul Ryan, who urged them to seek gainful employment, and their first thought had been_ I'll lick you for a nickel._

But the Senator was not interested in their dreams of status. In a race for the White House, their innocence was her best bargaining chip, and they wanted the charade to end here. But they were scared of the pain. They needed to see if it was worth it.

"Point of no return." said Sam. They had Harold on all sides, pulling at his coat, arms hooked under his knees, so that he could not escape. In the books, this is where the chapter ends.

"...can you turn off the light?"

Sam smiled, he must look a horror-show with all the blood. Then again, maybe Harold didn't want the curse of Sam's face floating before him the next time he took someone to bed. There were several switches by the door, and he hit three or four before the room went dark.

* * *

><p>"What's that noise?" one of the girls asked. The dance floor was empty since the Senator had left to return some phone calls, and a high keening noise poured out of the ceiling.<p>

"Someone must've turned on an intercom by accident." said another girl, covering her ears.

"This is rediculous," she said, crossing her arms, "All the guys walked out, I should just call a cab and-"

"My head's not in a good place," said a voice from the ceiling, "Are you sure you don't want someone else?"

Every girl in the room froze, turning their heads to the ceiling in unison like flowers to the sun.

"They can wait their turn." and several girls clapped their hands over their mouths as they recognized Harold's voice.

* * *

><p>The other boys watched Sam undress him in silent trepidation, and when he cupped his right hand to their mouths to spit into, they did not question him.<p>

"Keep him in place," he told them, "I don't want to hurt him."

He leaned in close, one hand pressed against the underside of a thigh, and Harold gasped as a wet hand took his cock.

"So what were you gonna do to me back in the hotel room?" Sam asked, working him slow.

"I wasn't..."

"Yes you were," he said, "You were thinkin' it. You had me right there."

"I just...I just wanted..."

"To come inside me?" he asked, his own cock now hard and slick against him.

"I wouldn't have made you-" he said, head lolling as he felt the heat begin to build.

"No," he said, removing his hand, cold air suddenly hitting him, "You couldn't have."

And with no warning, he drove into him, sinking all the way so that Harold bucked against him and twisted like a tree in the wind, but they fought him, keeping his back flat on the table as Sam hooked his arms under both his knees and began pounding away at him.

"Ya know, I was gonna go straight to the basement after that fight. Stick that thing in it's cage, lock myself in for the night, have myself a little slumber party," he said, breathing hot and hard, "But I think Dean would agree this is better."

The boy crushed him, sucking him back in as he pulled back. He knew the others would stand in his place once he was finished. He was just the excuse to get started, the first broken window to encourage the neighborhood punks to chuck the next rock, until the boy was a shuddering ruin.

Harold buried his face in somebody's jacket, glad he wasn't alone for this.

"Please, finish me..." he said, the poor kid's cock bobbing untouched.

"Oh no, I gotta long list of unsatisfied customers waiting for me," said Sam, sliding in and out with long torturous stroke, "I want to stay hungry."

Harold grit his teeth at the pain, at the same time knowing this was what he wanted, to be desired by someone who so clearly outmatched him, could have killed him with his own gun. Surrounded by hot guys who were getting off on his humiliation, eager to use him now that he'd been compromised.

"You're so good for me..." said Sam, head bent, towering over him like a bad omen. He tried to think of Dean, but the kid just lay there and took it, and it strangled whatever climax he might have had.

Harold whimpered, and one of the boys grabbed his hair to hold on. Their company was a comfort, and once Sam was gone he knew they'd run back upstairs to their hotel suite and end the night in a sweaty pile on the Senator's dime.

"That's it..." Sam hissed as hips slammed back against him in all urgency.

"Ah...ah...Sam please..."

Sam reached out for whoever was closest, directing their hand to the kid's cock as Harold twisted underneath him. Back in the ballroom, all of the girls stood with one hand over their eyes, out of respect, Sam's final words spooling out of the ceiling like a terrible pronouncement.

"That's it," he hissed, "Come for me little boy."

Harold's breathing became more labored, finally stopping for a good five seconds until his face became a mask of agony, jerking two pearl ropes across his shirt, and collapsed into a boneless heap.


	41. Good Cop Bad Cop

Dean sank into the only chair, the room dark except for the streetlamp outside. "I thought you were still in the hospital."

"I was." said John, silhouetted by the window. He was dressed in a navy blazer and tie with his hair slicked back, professional and forgettable. Headlights climbed the blinds, throwing the side of his face into sharp relief. "Got a phone call the other night offering me a job."

"I swear I pumped that thing full of lead," Dean started, handcuffs biting into his skin as he held his hands out, "Really you can ask any of the girls at the show tonight-"

"I'm not talking about your lizard man," John said absently, watching the parking lot empty out, "They're hard to kill, but they got a high metabolism. Easier to starve it out."

"So if you're not here for that..."

"Washington is planning a monster war down in Atlanta." he said plainly, turning so Dean could see the folder under his arm.

Dean blinked. "The hell's down there?"

John dropped a map on the table and turned it sharply with his fingertips. "Vampires in the north," he said, clicking a pen to circle one place and then another, "Zombies in the south."

The weak street light was enough for Dean to see by, but John had to lean so close that the kid could smell the cheap hotel soap. His handcuffs shook a little against the steel table, and he placed them in his lap.

"State Troopers evacuated the city, what was left of it," John began, shuffling more papers across to him, "They hustled most of the zombies into the state penitentiary, poured concrete over all the entrances. For anything they didn't catch, the perimeter's been cordoned off with an electrified fence. Nothing goes in, nothing gets out."

Dean scanned the numbers, the usual statistics, until he got to the hospital's Dead On Arrival body count. He could have flipped the pages of a phone book, counted to five before stopping, and gotten as many names.

"How many vampires we talking about?" Dean asked, "A hundred? Two hundred?"

John snorted, impressed against his will. "Four."

Dean stared at him. "That's impossible."

"I saw the security videos," said John, "They're fast. They're so fast."

He looked at the door, genuinely troubled.

"I saw one girl, just walking along the sidewalk, and she put her hand up, like something had brushed her neck," he said, lifting his hand to look at it, "And her heart stopped before she hit the pavement."

Dean waited, watching him. Downstairs he could hear keys jangling in a lock from the outside, the click of high heels as two secretaries laughed at something on the way to their cars. "What do they want?" he asked.

"A hunting ground," said John, dropping his hand, "The city's a good start, if they get strong enough they'll be able to leap that fence and into the wider world."

"So what do we do?"

"The Army's decided to fight fire with fire. The plan is to lure all four to a central location," he said, jabbing the map where two train lines intersected, "Once that occurs, the zombies get released and do the job for us."

"How many zombies?"

John shrugged. "How many do you want?"

"And how are you supposed to kill them afterward?" Dean asked, the table creaking as John sat on the corner.

"You could mop the floor with these guys," he said easily, "I'll leave that to your imagination."

Dean nodded, looking down and up very quickly as he considered his next question. "Can I ask you something?"

"What is it?"

Dean almost said to forget it, but he had to know. "Who made that phone call?"

John smiled, Dean already knew the answer to this one. "The Senator's been keeping tabs on me for a while now."

"Yeah, I figured," said Dean, a little embarrassed, "First time we ran into her, she made a joke about you."

"Oh yeah?" he said interested, sliding his hands into his pockets.

"Yeah," said Dean, trying to make light of it, "She thought you were stupid."

John barked a laugh, his teeth white in the gloom as he smiled and then covered his mouth and then began laughing again. Dean pictured John with the Senator, dark on blonde. Some day, Dean swore to himself, he would pour a lot of gin into that man and get all the details.

"She would say that." said John after a while. He lay a hand on Dean's shoulder and let it rest while looking elsewhere.

"I guess she likes 'em big and dumb." said Dean, trying to cover his panic.

"You're wrong. I know women like her," said John, the smile gone out of him, "She likes 'em big and smart."

Dean swallowed. "Sam wouldn't..."

"Dean, this next job? It's a bad one. Even I had to think twice about taking it," said John, leaning over to get in his face, "Now I want you there with me but Sam...with his inclinations..."

"What are you getting at?" he asked, trying to keep the snap out of his voice.

"I'm saying the Senator's gonna offer him a job," said John, "With her in the Capitol. He'd be away from the business, start a new life-"

"He'd say no-"

"-and if he does," John cut in, "You're gonna send him right back to her and make him say yes."

He smiled, though his eyes were stinging. "I can't do that." he said under his breath.

"Dean," he said, a note of real concern in his voice, "This thing he's got, it's gonna kill him."

"Well then if it kills him I won't be far behind."

"And what if it doesn't?" said John, standing up to walk across the room, "What if it turns him into something you can't kill?"

Dean sat in silence, John's voice very clear in that bare room as he began to pace.

"I once knew a hunter out west," John began, "He had a...kennel under his property way out in the middle of nowhere, deep underground he'd dug all these wells. There are things down there that don't need food. Don't need to breathe. They've spent centuries in the dark, learning to go mad," he said, stretching out the last words for emphasis, "All of them used to be men."

Dean grit his teeth. "That ain't Sammy."

"But it ain't you either," said John, moving back to him very quickly, "You two, you're livin' like a gypsy, never thinkin' past where you'll sleep next or whether you'll ever see a hot shower this year."

He put a hand on the back of Dean's neck, warm and clean, and Dean forgot to breathe.

John searched his face. "How long can you bounce back from that?"

Dean tried to think, but his head wouldn't work. "He's got a lotta good in him..."

"No he doesn't. Neither do you," he said in a low voice, "And neither do I. I would put you in the line of fire if I thought I could drown a creature in your blood."

He breath was hot on the boy's face. Dean's hands opened and closed on top of his leg, he felt like a man in a car with no brakes. "You think you're better then Sam?"

"No," said John, mouth curling, "But at least I don't prefer the taste of Evil Dick."

He let go and stood up to leave. "I signed for your release," he said, dropping a key on the table until it bounced within Dean's reach, "I'll be at the Hotel Laredo, room nine, til noon tomorrow."

Dean stared at the key, and then, like a drowning man that sees a low-hanging limb, he grabbed John's sleeve. "Please, don't leave me here," he said, fingers curling around hard muscle, "I'll do whatever you need."

Maybe it was the trill in the boy's voice, or maybe it was the four doubles he'd had on his way out of the hospital. Either way, that plea was all it took for John to lift him out of the chair and slam him into the one-way mirror.

"Don't talk like a bitch when I need a bloodhound," he said thru his teeth.

Dean shuddered, not daring to look away. John had his mouth right against his ear.

"I need you to clear that city, my way. I point," he said, hard against his leg, "You shoot."

Dean nodded once, a flush creeping to his face.

"Twelve o'clock tomorrow," John whispered, leaning away, "Plenty of time to finish this job you're on."

Dean looked up at him wide-eyed, handcuffs pressed against his front to hide his need.

"You want some help with that?" John asked, looking down at them.

His heart hammered, ready to throw himself on his knees and submit. He wanted nothing so much as to walk into that hotel room with John waiting for him, already naked under the sheet, eyes glazed black with desire while he watched the boy undress for him...

"No," Dean said hoarsely, "I got this."

John looked at him sideways, then turned to gather the papers. "Twelve o'clock," he said, the door squealing as it closed on him, "I won't wait."

**TBC**


	42. Party Bus

**Okay readers, next big monster fight in a coupla chapters, vote for Sam/Vampire or Sam/Zombie?**

**Summary so far, John's offered Dean a chance to fight a monster war in Atlanta, on the condition that Sam stays away for this one. Sam meanwhile just captured the monster of the week, but out of sexual frustration banged the until-now abstinent Ken Doll of the evil lady Senator, who's on an anti-sex crusade and is an object of loathing/desire for all three Winchesters.**

**Bit of a silly chapter, but I really wanted to give Misha something fun to do.**

* * *

><p>Dean popped his collar against the soft summer rain as he walked away from the jail, John's offer burning a hole in his gut.<p>

"Hey man, walk me across the street?" asked a boy next to him. One of his cellmates, a teenage train hopper caught sleeping under an ATM, tore two arm holes thru a trash bag for a makeshift poncho.

"I'm not headed that way." said Dean, picturing Sam curled up between the Senator's tits, and wondering how far he'd need to be from the police station before could hotwire a car.

"Come on man, I had a gun put to my head last week," the boy pleaded, pointing at a yellow concrete building, "I just gotta get my dog."

Dean followed his gaze. The city pound looked identical to the jail, except you could smell it from here. The rest of the street was dark, chainlink fence overlooking foreclosed factories and other great hiding places for the monster that got away.

"I were you, I'd punch a cop and spend a few more days inside," he said, glad for the weight of the 9mm beneath his jacket, "Now if you'll excuse me, I got my own friend to rescue."

* * *

><p>Sam stared at the wine bottle between his knees, sloshing the red contents gently as he waited for the blood to dry on his hands. A jumble of broken equipment lay scattered outside the cage, improvised tools in his fruitless attempt at killing the scaly horror that lay sleeping six feet away from him.<p>

"What's it gonna take?" he muttered. He'd spent the last round carving the creature's head open and scooping it's brain into a janitor's pail, only to watch it grow another brain, the skull reknitting itself like a spiderweb in fast forward. It was slow going, but give it a few more hours...

He snapped open his cell phone. "Dean? It's me," he said after the tone, "I heard you got tossed in lock-up, I'm gonna talk to...some people about getting you out, so hold on."

At the edge of the light, the cage gave a low rattling hiss, three pairs of hands grabbing the bars as Sam made to stand. Tiny lamprey mouths opened and closed in it's palms, sniffing the room for it's next hot meal. A strand of Sam's blood had stained the metal from their last bout, and it lapped at it hungrily.

_Death by leeching._ he thought. He swayed, spiny tongues sanding away years of rust until the steel shone. The wine went straight to his head, so that he had to lean on the cage for support. Two hands reached out to lick his slacks, and his hair hung in his eyes as he watched them curiously.

His cock still ached from his encounter with the intern. No one had checked on him for a while now, and feeling the creature was too weak to be a risk, he undid his belt. He'd been tempted to let it out for air all night, grinding against seven feet of jurassic muscle as it struggled beneath him, unable to die.

The creature shifted in it's confines, two middle hands reaching thru the bars hopefully as he bit into his thumb, painting a wide stripe of blood on the length of him. When he was all over bloody, cock hanging in midair like a compass needle, he stretched his arms over his head and hung there, it's hands sucking at the air around him.

They were suprisingly soft, both taking his cock in slow, thirsty strokes as the bottom hands latched on hard, claws leaving their mark on his ankles. Six hands were a lot to be getting on with, he thought. Two to pin his wrists, two to part his legs, two to work his cock as the thing hanging between it's legs gave him the best kind of wound, pounding every last ounce out of his young body.

"Fucking hell..." he muttered, hips pressed against the bars until he was on tip-toe. Little cat tongues scraped over him, lapping the bitter salt that leaked out, pulling him closer and closer. It crouched before him, the weak light glinting in that yawning maw, jaw unhinged to reveal hundreds of spiny teeth with a throat wide enough to swallow a flashlight.

He rolled his head sideways, staring not at the creature but at the padlock inches away from his fingers. He'd been trying to kill this thing all night, surely it was weak enough for him to chance a few minutes inside the cage...

And then he heard the faint _ting_ of Dean's ring clinking against the bar, and reason flooded back to his brain.

"Gotta find Dean." he whispered, pulling away. The creature rushed against the bars, claws flailing as it strained to hook into his clothes.

Sam wrestled within himself as he straightened his clothes, washing his hands in the dump sink. The cage was solid, but with no way of keeping it dead he was loathe to leave it unsupervised for long. He could wait for Dean's release from jail and hope he could come up with a better solution. But that could take hours. _What?_ said his dick, _You don't wanna stick around and baby-sit Cockzilla here?_

He wiped his hands on his shirt. The clock was ticking and he was running out of options.

"Sam, where are you going?" asked Misha. Sam had been in the basement for hours, blood-curdling howls echoing up the stairs every time someone opened the door.

"I need to talk to the Senator." Sam said, brushing past him to knock on her office door.

Misha grabbed his shoulder, his fingers coming away bloody. "Sam stop, Dean asked me to look out for you-"

"Dean's in jail," he said sharply, "She's the only person who can spring him."

"She's not gonna do you any good turns." said Misha, running to stand in front of him.

"I think I can curry favor-"

"Dude you fucked her intern," he snapped, finally getting Sam's attention, "You think you can do anything in a conference center like this and not be heard? The rooms are live, everybody in the building heard it."

Sam froze, lips pressed together. "...she knows?"

"_Dogs_ know man!" he said, hands in the air, "What were you thinking? She's spent years building an abstinence puppet and now there's no room for her hand cuz _you_ stuck a dick up his ass!"

"Oh fuck," he said, running his hands thru his hair, a light glowing at the bottom of her office door, "She's with them now?"

"Yeah," said Misha, lowering his hands, "They're in for it now. All of them. They were supposed to keep each other in line and now..."

"I still need to talk to her." he said, though he sounded unsure this time.

"You need...to be careful," Misha warned him, voice pitched low as he walked him away from the office, "There's something going down in Atlanta, something nasty, and Dean's name just got added to a very short list of people who might be sent there."

Sam narrowed his eyes, trying to think of why the Senator would need Dean for anything. "Who else is on this list?"

Misha snorted. "Her ex-boyfriend."

All the blood went out of Sam's face. John. It had to be John. He had no choice now, he had to convince her to release Dean so they could escape and get the hell out of Dodge.

"I'm not interested in her business," he said, suddenly glad Dean was incarcerated and safe from the old man's machinations, "Whatever she wants from Dean, she can ask him when his ass is outside a jail cell."

"Your funeral man." said Misha, looking down as his cell phone buzzed.

"Where you going?" Sam asked.

"Misha," hissed a girl in the doorway, "Let's go, we got it all gassed up!"

"Be right there." he said, smiling as the door closed on the hushed carpet, and he turned back to Sam. "I'm taking the first plane back to Haiti."

Sam smiled. "No shit."

"Shit indeed. I got a few interested parties to tag along," said Misha, jangling a set of keys in one hand, "And the Senator's kindly left her ride sitting out front."

"You're taking her campaign bus?"

"Not like she'll need it," he said, pocketing the keys, "Dean's little stunt at the Hell House will have every teenager this side of the International Dateline swearing off dick, the check from Bob Jones University alone oughta keep her in mimosas and attack ads for a good long while."

"Good luck to ya man," he said, shaking his hand, "Aren't you going to miss the rat race? Haiti's awful far south of Washington."

"I'll send them a nice Xerox of my taint." he said as he headed for the exit.

"But where are you gonna get the money?" Sam asked.

"Misha let's go!" shouted the girl, propping the door open with her heel as she hurried him along. And tossing a Cheshire grin over his shoulder, he waved and let the door click shut on the empty passageway.

* * *

><p>Back in the ballroom, girls sat in their wilting taffeta, champagne fizzled out and the echoes of Harold's undoing on replay in their sex-addled brains.<p>

"So..." said one girl, "I guess he's...really gay."

"Really _really_ gay." replied another girl. They sighed and poured themselves another drink, the bartender having gone home hours ago. The Senator had made a lot of promises, that if they crossed their legs and made straight A's and got into Yale the world would be theirs. Men liked successful women, the Senator had said, and an Ivy League MBA was their ticket to sex on tap with hot and cold running dick. But...

"...why are all the hot ones gay?" she asked, chugging the bubbly, "I mean, what's left for us?"

"Hey, do you hear that?" her friend said, head turning.

"Shut up and let me die of liver failure." she said, foam spilling down her cleavage as she emptied the glass.

"Sounds like someone's got a megaphone." she said, standing up to look out the window.

Parked on the lawn, girls gathered around a tour bus, the outside decorated in sequined panties and repainted to read "Re-Erection 2012".

"Last call ladies!" said Misha, standing on the bus roof with a megaphone as girls jumped up and down with checkbooks in their hands, "Do I hear nine hundred? We have one thousand here, do I heard one thousand one?"

"What's he doing?" asked the drunk.

"I'm not sure," she replied, as the highest bidder squealed with delight and the bus door unfolded, "I think he's auctioning seats on the bus."

She reached for another champagne bottle from behind the bar, chilly against her bare arm. "Fuck this noise, let's see what's going on outside."

"So what's the deal?" they asked, rain dripping down their backs in a sticky mix of hairspray and perfume.

"He says he's driving to Miami," said a girl next to her, wide-eyed with lust, "And he'll be naked."

The drunk looked him up and down. "I've heard Florida's lovely this time of year."

She pushed thru the throng until she was right up against the bus, and kicking off her stilletos she climbed the front wheel until she stood eye-to-eye with him, the wind whipping the crinoline around her legs like a cotton candy machine.

"Do you like champagne?" she asked, warmly woozy, purse swinging precariously on her shoulder.

"I like a good party." he said, catching her waist before she fell over.

"Do you like girls?" she asked hopefully, sinking into his blue eyes.

"I like money." he said, leaning in close.

She could work with this. "Business before pleasure." she said, pulling out her checkbook.

When everyone was seated, Misha shut the door and pointed the megaphone to the back of the bus. "Can I get some noise?"

Everyone screamed, and Misha undid his tie.

"I can't HEEEEAR YOOOOU." he said, stopping with the tie still around his neck. The screams got louder, and he yanked it over his head and into the crowd like a wedding bouquet.

"Your turn!" he yelled, and he passed a hat around as girls tossed in necklaces, earrings, broaches, all the little ornaments that had dug into their tender flesh these many years and were headed straight for the hock shop.

"You want more?" he asked, and in response to their deafening yells he put down the megaphone and began to unbutton his shirt.

"Can somebody help me with this?" he asked, and several girls raced up to undress him, until his chest was bare and the shirt fell to the floor. They weren't afraid any more, and though most of them would still wait for love, they were happy to know it was out there.

"Your turn!" he yelled, and hundreds of zippers hissed in the dark as miles of Italian silk was stuffed out the nearest window and into the grass below. They sat in their bras and panties, waiting for the next step. He pressed PLAY on the stereo.

"And now, everybody sing with me," he said, undoing his belt, "Everybody dance!"

"EVERYBODY DANCE!" they yelled.

"Everybody dance!" he said, kicking off his shoes.

"EVERYBODY DANCE!" they yelled, jumping in their seats as his zipper rolled down with cruel deliberation.

"Everybody dance like there's ass in your pants!" he yelled, his slacks dropping around his ankles and the whole bus screaming like he was a rock 'n roll god made flesh. The drunk girl twisted the cork in her manicured hand, and it zoomed across the bus and cracked a framed portrait of the Senator, foam spilling everywhere as the picture swayed and crashed to the floor. More alcohol was produced from Prada bags, and soon everyone was drinking out of high heels and singing in atonal unison as Misha cranked the volume.

He turned the megaphone over his shoulder, one black-stockinged foot on the brake. "Where are we going?"

"HAITI!"

"When are we gonna get there?"

"REAL SOON!"

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	43. Heartland

**I can never write about the Heartland boys without thinking of that Rolling Stone magazine cover the Jonas Brothers did once, they look INCREDIBLY gay.**

**Btw, in case the pearl references make no sense, real pearls have a grainy texture, so if you see someone sticking a pearl necklace against the inside of their lip, that's what they're testing for.**

* * *

><p>Dean was halfway to the conference center, midday sun burning down his neck, when he heard someone crying.<p>

"Sammy?" he said, jogging and then sprinting to the figure in the middle of the street, sobs muffled by the hands over his face as he shuffled along the median.

"Dean!" he yelled, eyes wide in surprise, "I thought you were in jail."

He wrapped his arms around his neck, pulling him in close. "We have to steal a ride," Sam whispered in his neck, "I saw a van on the side of the road back there, if I can hose off before we hit the road-"

"Holy shit what happened to you?" Dean asked, prying his wrists apart to see where all the blood had come from.

Sam's breath hitched, his voice raw. "She...she..."

"Who?" asked Dean, "The Senator?"

Sam nodded, and Dean's voice turned ugly. "What did you do?"

Sam looked scared all of a sudden, and it made Dean's stomach knot with suspicion. "Sammy you had all night to look for me, you didn't even try to post my bail."

He'd spent the last several miles daydreaming about this next hunt with John, all perfectly chaste, but a tiny, tiny, black part of him wanted a reason to push Sam away and make those dreams into something more.

"I couldn't help it," Sam whispered, crossing his arms protectively as everything came out in a rush, "I went to her office to ask for your release, and when I got there she was in a meeting with her interns, and they were really mad about something and they had her pinned to the desk and I had to fight them off and..."

He trailed off and Dean shook his head, not wanting to hear what came next. "And then?" he asked.

Sam's lip trembled. "She was so scared."

Dean wiped his mouth, furious that Sam could have fallen for a damsel in distress but already playing out how he could use the boy's faithlessness to cash in on John's sympathy later that night. "Tell me you didn't," he said, grabbing Sam's shirt, "Tell me you didn't do this."

"I'm sorry Dean," he said, eyes shining, "One thing just led to another-"

"You're sorry," he said, mouth stretched tight, wishing he could throw him to the ground and wash his hands of him, "I'm gone for one night-"

"Please, not now," Sam pleaded, looking around for witnesses, "We can't stay here, they have my picture, they'll have a warrant out for me."

"Why?" he asked, his voice breaking, "Because you fucked her?"

Sam blinked. "What? No, why would you think that?"

Dean looked down at his clothes, tacky with blood, none of it Sam's. The boy smelled more like flopsweat then sex, and now Dean was scared. "What happened?"

Sam's eyes went blank, as if someone had blown out the light behind them. "I killed her."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Ten hours earlier...<em>**

The Senator sat down at her desk and flicked open the evening post, smiling at the headline. ABSTINENCE HORROR SHOW DRAWS IN DONORS

She fiddled with her pearls as she read, sucking on them gently to tell the fakes apart. She'd changed out of the ballgown into a houndstooth jacket and skirt, her hair pulled back into a bun as if it offended her propriety. Behind her, the moon reflected a framed needlework of_ My Country 'Tis of Thee,_ the sole memento of her rough upbringing. Without moving her head, her eyes slid sideways to the knock on the door, and she covered the headline with a stack of receipts.

"Come in." she said, cradling a phone between ear and shoulder, so that when the Heartland boys entered they immediately asked permission to interrupt. Sometimes she forgot how distracting they were, each one a different example of masculine beauty. The three dark-curled ones that hinted at Jewish ancestry, the coal-miner's son with the green eyes and trim build, the corn-fed blonde with the freckles across his nose. But then Harold entered, and even though John Winchester had been half a lifetime ago, she always had a soft spot for soldiers.

"Just a minute," she said to no one over the phone, and covered the receiver with her manicured hand, "Can I help you?"

"We need to talk," said Harold, walking heavily to her desk and then changing tack as her perfume hit him, "Ma'am."

She looked away, as if her priorities were printed on the wallpaper and his problems ranked right below adjusting her bra strap. "Can I put you on hold?" she said, crushing the red button with her thumb.

He cleared his throat, having rehearsed this in the mirror. "You should have these," he said, placing six promise rings on her desk, "We don't have a right to them anymore."

"Oh hush now," she said gently, as if he had stolen a five from her purse to appease a bully, "It's not the end of the world, you were coerced."

She took his hand, understanding writ large on her face, but he pulled away. "We were six against one. Sam was hardly a threat."

"He had a gun." she said, her mouth hanging open at the last word, a note of accusation as she noted Harold's empty holster.

"We all had guns."

"Is that what you're going to tell the news?" she said, her face sharp in the lamplight as she leaned forward, "That you let a delinquent take advantage of you?"

"I didn't let-"

"This isn't about you," she said, "Honey there's only one word in the army that's worse then _fag_, and that's _whore_. Soldiers have enough heartache, they don't need it from their heroes too."

Harold looked down. With his combat credentials, and assuming he could graduate from a good school, he'd planned on a job in the State Department, acting as an advocate for gays in the military. The romance novels had earned him a lot of fanmail from closeted soldiers.

She picked up one of the _Heartland_ novels, Harold's mighty thews gleaming on the cover. "Ever since we lost to Kennedy, the GOP has invested in the business of pretty people, and you are what people think you are. Brilliant, brave," she said, tracing the metallic raised lettering, "Unobtainable."

He raised his head. "I don't care what people think."

"Choose your next words," she said, tossing the book down, "Those colleges you applied for? They want respectable boys. The alumni association won't be too pleased knowing there's two hundred and fifty pounds of insatiable beef sleeping in the dorms."

He took the hand of the boy standing next to him, all of them looking down at her in solidarity. "I don't plan on sleeping with strangers."

"Ah. Well, I hate to spoil your little..." she paused, lips curling, "...democracy, but I sign the checks around here. So here's my counter offer."

She pulled out a paper tablet and began scribbling down notes.

"You will take this statement to the press tomorrow," she said, hand traveling swiftly from left to right, "Provided you do exactly as I direct you, you get to keep your jobs until the election, after which I will happily write any number of letters of recommendation to the school of your choice."

She tore off the paper and pressed it flat on the desk before him.

"Until then, wear the rings and keep it in your pants," she said, plucking the phone from it's cradle with a sharp _click_, "Or you'll be in line for Food Stamps by the end of the week."

Harold scanned the press statement, eyes lighting upon buzz words like_ lewd advances_ and _conspiracy_.

"And take a bath," she said, waving them away in dismissal, "You smell like a French cathouse."

Harold set his jaw. "Can I ask you a question ma'am?"

She raised her eyebrows, the rings still glittering on her desk.

"When was the last time you got fucked?"

* * *

><p>Sam watched Misha leave, turning back toward the Senator's office right as the light moved under the door, as if a lamp had been pushed onto the carpet.<p>

"What are you doing?" she asked, and when Sam pressed his face to the keyhole, he saw two of the interns pinning her arms from behind while another swept the desk clear.

"You're out of your minds, I could have you all arrested..." she said, trailing off as Harold began unbuttoning her blouse.

"We're not stupid," said Harold, opening her blouse to reveal firm, tan breasts, nipples hardening before he even touched her, "Of all the Republicans in the Capitol, you hold the record for best behavior. No rent boys, no meth deals, no underage sex chats."

Sam froze, not sure if he ought to interrupt. She was watching Harold very carefully, like a rottweiler that had slipped it's leash.

"Instead you've been staring at us for the last two years," he said, his hand an inch from her heart, "Were you waiting for us to ask permission?"

She pressed her lips together, breathing fast thru her nose as she struggled against her captors. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're really not interested?" he asked, fingertips trailing lightly on her skin, "Short skirts, six inch heels, frying your hair into place every day, for what, the press to notice?"

He bent over slowly, a little sigh escaping her as he pressed his mouth to her neck. This wasn't exactly how she'd pictured it, her shower fantasies usually involved more begging on their part, but then her self-respect won out. "You're only hurting yourself by doing this," she rasped, "You wanted state jobs, think about your credibility."

"You're so beautiful..." he said, and as two of the boys knelt to take off her stilettos. She was surprisingly short without them, so that when they got down on their knees and wrapped their arms around her waist, her tits were right in their faces.

"Put her on the desk." said Harold, and before she could protest she was lifted by several sets of hands, thumbs pressed cruelly into the soft flesh above her knees.

Wealth had given her a degree of separation from a great deal of unpleasantness. She lived by the service of others, meals prepared, shirts ironed, gas pumped, vibrators mail-ordered in exchange for money. She touched nothing and nothing touched her. _Until now_, she thought as hands traveled up her bare calves.

A blonde curl came loose, falling over one eye as she looked up at Harold. His hands were rough and calloused against her, inexperienced enough to be curious and young enough to think he wanted this more than she did. She'd always assumed the novel covers had exaggerated the boys' build, but as she watched his forearms slide under her skirt she suspected the artists had not lied.

"Tell us what you want." he said, fingers kneading her thighs, leaning over so the light spilled across his shoulders like molten gold.

"I don't...want..." she whispered, and two mouths began to work at her neck from behind, until she found it very hard to speak. Other hands spread her blouse open, pressing their faces into her breasts, her sides, her shoulders, feasting on her while below them, the rings lay scattered on the floor, forgotten.

Harold was silent, watching her face as he pressed his mouth to her knee. She shivered at the look in his eyes, wanting more but too proud to ask. His hands dug in, refusing to go any higher, and a little voice in her belly began to whimper. It had always been there, sleeping between her legs when she looked at them, untouched, restrained for a nobler purpose, when really all she wanted was for him to move his hand and jam two fingers inside of her, opening her until she was a hot mess and ready to hopscotch each of them two at a time.

She grit her teeth, wishing he could read her mind and move his hand higher, to fill her, move with her until he begged for satisfaction...

And then Sam kicked in the door.

"Step away!" he shouted, all the boys bolting up straight.

"This isn't what it looks like." said Harold, hands up in the air, and she nearly kicked him for stopping.

"I heard her," he said, looking at her splayed out on the desk, "She said no."

She wanted to shake her head, but found she couldn't. Old habits die hard. "That's right," she croaked, "I said no."

She looked up at Harold, who was still kneeling between her legs, not believing her.

"The fuck is wrong with you, you heard her!" said Sam, and when Harold still did not back off, he laid a bone-rattling punch on the side of his face that knocked him into the wall.

Harold looked more surprised then hurt, and looked up at Sam with one hand pressed against his cheek. Sam, the entitled street trash who thought he was good enough to turn down the Senator's job offer. _Hope he likes having a hand up his ass_, he thought bitterly.

"Fuck this," said Harold, standing up to leave, and the others followed suit.

"Harold..." she whispered, clutching her jacket to her breasts. She sat there panting, watching the last of the boys whip around the corner and out of sight.

For two years she'd worked on the Heartland Boys project, carefully cultivating the Great American Wet Dream so that, come election day, every girl would yank that lever and think of them. Only to have to have it scared off by Sam Winchester.

"Are you alright?"

She turned to him, her hair bone-bleached under the lamplight, shadows blacking out her eyes and mouth.

"I heard voices, and I should have come in sooner, if they hurt you I swear-"

For someone so short, she could punch like an Irish dockworker, and he went down with his legs straight out, blood gushing from both nostrils. He choked for a few seconds, head lolling on the carpet as the ceiling spun at right angles.

"The fuck..." he whispered, eyes a little unfocused as he watched her fix her clothes in the mirror.

"Fuck is right." she said, tucking her little feet back into her heels so that she towered over him. "They almost made me do it," she said stiffly, "But I held back."

She turned to the mirror to straighten her skirt, the needlework reversed in the glass, and the anthem came to her as natural as a bedtime prayer.

_Land of the noble free, thy name I love, _

_I love thy rocks and rills,_

_Thy woods and templed hills, _

_My heart with rapture thrills, like that above._

She sniffed long and loud, dabbing at her eyes. It sounded too much like a love song. "Stupid kids," she said, buttoning her shirt, "I got a hundred phone messages just from tonight, all from people who want to sponsor me this fall. All because of my Hell House."

He rolled over on his side, spitting out a slimy red mouthful while she poked inside her purse for lipstick.

"I was a fool to rely on sentiment to produce change," she said, painting her lips until they shined like a fire hydrant, "When fear and trembling get the job done much quicker."

She looked at him in the mirror, lipstick hovering near her mouth. "My backers are very curious to see what Dean managed back there, no one's been clear on the details."

He pulled himself up on one elbow. "If you're talking about the thing that killed one of your men, Dean didn't manage anything..."

"Well whatever it is, it's made a good impression. We ran out of virginity pledge cards, I had to send someone to the copy shop," she said, plucking a kleenex from a box on the shelf, "Misha let on that you had it caged. I would very much appreciate your assistance in utilizing it for my purposes."

John had not told her about the monster. She was under the impression that the recent deaths were due to a rabid animal, wild and highly sexed, and having grown up in a midwest town that celebrated bull-riding, she was not alarmed when John hinted at Sam's predilection for risky behavior.

"You don't know what you're messing with." Sam rasped, watching her press the tissue between her lips.

"Well, apparently you do," she said, noting his bloodstains, "The fight in the kitchen must have been impressive, my insurance is still touting up the property damage."

"I got lucky."

"And you'll get lucky again. My investors want to see a dancing bear," she said, licking a bit of lipstick off her teeth, "That makes you the organ grinder."

"I've been trying to kill that thing all night, if you could just let Dean out maybe he-"

"Heh. John talked about Dean. Not a lot, but..." she said, the tissue coming away with a phantom mouth, "They deserve each other."

"You put them on a job together, in Atlanta."

"There's not a lot of people we could have called," she admitted, turning toward his prone figure, "It's better for him this way."

"I won't let him-"

"Sam, I am a person of high places," she said, pointing to the ceiling, "Give me five minutes on a phone and I will bury Dean in red tape so deep he'll never see the sun. Are you familiar with the phrase 'conditional detention'?"

Sam swallowed, the tip of her shoe now pressed against his Adam's apple. "He's not a criminal," he whispered, his book-learning coming back to him, "You can't just bury someone in a prison without due process, Habeas Corpus states-"

"You're adorable," she said, flicking the tissue back and forth like a lurid flag, "After what he did at the Hell House, I can stamp him as a clear and present danger and make sure he's stared at thru a tiny window for the next fifty years."

"No you can't..." he said, shaking his head.

"Yes, I can. And will you love him then? When he's forgotten how to speak English? Forgotten your face?" she said, leaning down, "Forgotten his own name?"

She released her toe and knelt down beside him, her voice more animated now. "This..._nation_," she began, as if said nation had wet the bed, "Has forgotten the gravity of evil. Our slavery to sentiment has proven to be detrimental to the public welfare. We must cut it out, you and me, together. No more second chances. No more slack," she said, Harold's face looming before her, "No more love songs."

"You don't have to do this."

"Sam, let us help each other. I heard you through the walls, my boy you are no different then this great country of ours. You have a sickness," she whispered, "Let me be what you need."

He shuddered at her offer, her hand opening until the tissue drifted over his face, a lipstick kiss as light as a moth. _Finally_, he thought, someone who accepted him for what he was, willing to share in his troubles.

But she didn't. She had listened to him and Dean thru the hotel wall the other night, and then again thru the loudspeaker when he'd been with Harold. She took him for a sex addict, no different from the teenagers of Crabbe County, not knowing it was all a side effect of something much worse.

And though she tried to be professional, she had wanted him the moment she'd laid eyes on him, broke and hungry like she'd been at his age, and all the bottled up longing pooled into her belly like lava. The Heartland Boys had been a waste of time, boring little Ken dolls. Taking her face in his hands, he pulled her down for a kiss, her lipstick smearing across her face like a gash. Real pearls are always rough on the mouth.

"Sam..." she whispered.

He sat them both up, fingers running thru her hair, over her neck, not attracted to her so much as the idea of sharing a monster with someone else. "This may sound a little forward, I've always wanted to try this, but..."

"But what?" she asked, eyes shining with anticipation.

He smiled wickedly. "Wanna invite a third?"

* * *

><p>He leaned against the bars, arms stretched on either side until he was hanging off of it. "Ready?" he asked.<p>

"Can I take this off?" she asked, a fingernail itching at the blindfold. She was seated in a metal folding chair, a bare lightbulb buzzing overhead.

"Not yet." he said, the color high in his cheeks as he reached for the lock.

She was delirious with excitement. Her few sexual escapades in college had been pretty vanilla, and even though John had left his mark on her, there's only so much you can achieve in the backseat of a car. With two men...

"Will it hurt?" she asked.

"Don't worry," Sam assured her, "I got this. You just relax."

Secretly, she wished she hadn't shunted Dean off to jail. Or insisted that John leave town by noon. She hated the idea of high school dropouts putting their hands on her, but now that Harold and the boys were gone, her cunt had a shopping list for the Great Mall of Dick, and she remembered her time with John when they were both eighteen.

_"Can you wash your hands?" she asked disgustedly._

_John looked down at his nails, black with motor oil. "Why, they'll just get dirty tomorrow."_

_"You're not putting those in me."_

_He smiled, shoving her knee aside with one hand. "Trust me, you're going to be best friends."_

_And as his head disappeared between her legs, she let out a surprised whoop and-_

-Sam's face dropped into her lap.

"Sam?" she asked, her hands touching the back of his neck, "Are you okay?"

He grunted, wrapping his arms around her waist. Behind him, something shifted.

"Can I look now?"

"No!" he said suddenly, "Keep it on."

"Is...is he here?" she whispered.

He panted into her skirt, hugging her tightly. "He's holding onto me."

She bit her lip. Whoever Sam had invited made a low bass rattle in his lungs, and she pictured meaty hands spreading the boy's ass cheeks, driving into his vulnerable flesh.

"He wants me," Sam hissed, "I almost let him earlier. He had my cock in his hands."

She sighed, twisting her fingers in his hair, pressing his nose into her skirt.

"Can I?" he begged, "Can I let him?"

She began to pant, breasts rising and falling, wishing she could look, watch him be taken by this big brute like John used to with her.

And with Sam facedown, breath hot thru the fabric, she reached for the blindfold.

* * *

><p>"And then what happened?" asked Dean.<p>

Sam stared at his shoes. "She screamed," he said distantly, "Over and over and over. And then she didn't."

Dean swallowed. "She's not that old."

"She's got a hard job," Sam said, "You don't sleep, you don't eat right, five espressos a day..."

"You sure she's dead."

Sam clutched his hair and nodded. "I couldn't get her to breath," he whispered, "After I stuck it back in the cage I tried CPR and when that didn't work I tried calling an ambulance but..."

He grabbed Dean. "And the look on her face when I left, she was so scared," he said, nails digging into his arm, "She was scared of _me_."

Somewhere, church bells were ringing in the high noon. Dean looked down at the bloody hand on his jacket, and remembered his appointment with John.

"Where are you going?" Sam asked as Dean pulled away.

"I..." he said, torn. Sam's revelation had rankled within him, and he felt dirty just standing this close.

But Sam could read it in his face. "Don't leave me," he begged, "Please, I can't do this without you, if I go on the run alone..."

"Sammy-"

"She was gonna take you away from me!" he shouted, grabbing him with both hands, "I had to help her, or she was gonna bury you under a prison somewhere."

Dean couldn't look him in the face, his head aching with the tolling of the bells as his opportunity slipped away from him.

"I couldn't let her lock you up, I even...she told me about the job in Atlanta," said Sam, "I would have let you go with John."

Dean's head snapped up, eyes wild with shock and hope. "You would?"

Sam held onto him tightly, desperate for what he might have lost, and he almost couldn't get the words out. "You'd be free."

The bells rang twelve, and somewhere a door closed, the car peeling away east for perils unknown. Dean waited until it had receded, and let out his breath.

"I am free." he said, and taking Sam's face in his hands, he pressed his mouth to his. His heart swelled in relief as they crushed against each other, knowing he'd made the right decision. No one else could give him this, the sun in his soul that burnt away all other desires, and damned if anyone could take it away from him.

"Dean..."

Sam's hand ran up, inside the boy's shirt so the ring was hard against his back, and Dean knew that even at his most terrifying John could never inspire such devotion in him.

"I fucked up bad-"

"Ssh," he said, lifting his chin, "There's time for that later. Can you hot-wire that van on your own?"

Sam nodded.

"Then meet me three exits north of the perimeter, by that trailer park we passed, wait for me," he said, his mouth a hard line, "I gotta score to settle."

* * *

><p>The Senator awoke to the sound of scraping steel against stone. "Nurse?" she muttered.<p>

"Your detail at the hospital was pretty good," said Dean, his voice a few feet over her head, "Maybe if you paid him more he'd have bothered scanning my badge."

She turned her head, her plump pillow replaced with a rocky, earthen floor. "Where am I?"

"The conference center," he said, scraping something into place, "They never paved this part of the basement. Didn't pass inspection, the clipboard at the front door was last signed in, what, 2009?"

She looked up him, his face visible thru a small window as she struggled against a pair of handcuffs. "I'll scream."

"You sure that's wise?"

Behind her, that low bass rattle echoed in a small chamber. "Where am I?" she shouted.

"Now now, keep your voice down," he said, "Sammy beat it down pretty good, give it another day or two and it should starve out."

She began to tremble, looking futilely thru the gloom for signs of the creature, and when she looked back she found the window had shrunk. "What are you doing?"

He slathered on another layer of mortar, straightening the brick until it was flush with the others. He'd been at this for hours, he was beginning to think she'd never wake up to see his handiwork.

"Dean, please!" she wailed, and then dropped her voice in terror, "You're not a killer."

"You're right," he said, laying another brick, the window so small he could only see her face, pale and drowned-looking without the make-up, "But you are. You would have let that thing off it's leash, all so you could make the news."

"No, no..." she said, a hiss filling the air. Dean had considered a lot of ways to exact his revenge, but then he remembered the kennel out west, the one John recommended should Sam ever cross the point of no return, and he wanted to see if he was capable of sealing someone up in the dark.

"You are so fucked." she said thru her teeth, her hillbilly twang rising up.

Slather, brick, scrape.

"Ya hear me? I'm gonna put the word out til you won't be able to look at the sky without feelin' my eye on you."

Slather, brick, scrape.

"Your face'll be on the men's room door of every precinct from here to the North Pole!"

"It already is," he said, putting the last brick in place, "And underneath it says FOR A GOOD TIME CALL DEAN WINCHESTER."

"I'm gonna hunt you down you cracker ass piece of shit!" she shrieked as he walked away, wiping mortar dist on his bluejeans, "If it's the last thing I do!"

And Dean smiled, leaping up the steps two at a time, knowing the Feds and the monsters and a beautiful young boy were awaiting his return, as the Senator was swallowed up screaming in the creature's embrace.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	44. B Movie

"You got the money?"

Braceface held up a sandwich bag filled with quarters. "I got _ten dollars_."

Boobs' cousin snatched it up. "Jump in back, pull the blanket over you once we get close."

Braceface ran around the back of the pickup truck, swinging a foot onto the bumper to hoist herself into the covered bed where Boobs sat reading by flashlight on a flannel blanket.

"How far to the drive-in?" asked Braceface, slamming the door shut behind her.

"No idea, I've never been to this place." she said, passing her the zine. Boobs had gotten it free at the local video arcade, ten pages of trashy poems and collage art xeroxed and stapled together, with the midnight movie advert in the back.

"Is your cousin gonna stay with us the whole time?"

"Nah, his girlfriend runs the nacho stand," said Boobs, "He's only sneaking us in cuz he needs the money for smokes."

"So," Braceface asked excitedly, "Have you seen _Sex Dungeon_?"

"No but oh my gosh, wait and lemme tell you," said Boobs, hands in the air as if Braceface might rush off suddenly, "I was talking to Eddy in class, and he said his sister got so horny after watching it that she _dry-humped the couch._"

"Eddy's sister is weird," said Braceface, nose wrinkling, "I sat next to her in math class and she was carving the teacher's initials into her arm with a circle compass. Except she gave up after a while and wrote over it with a red pen and told everyone it was blood."

"She's so fake."

"So what did Eddy say about the movie?" she asked smiling.

"Well he only ever saw a bootleg of a bootleg of someone recording it with a shaky cam at a convention, but he walked in on the end where the chick falls into a pit and rats eat her tits-"

"Don't tell me!" she said, covering her face, "Holy crap I'm gonna have nightmares tonight! How are they even getting away with showing this?"

"Most of the screens face the road, so they can only show Disney shit_, _but they've got an old screen way in the back," said Boobs, her hair swinging as they sailed over a speed bump, "If enough people chip in they'll show something _really_ messed up."

Braceface nodded. She'd never seen any of the other listed films, with such erudite titles as _Murder at the Disco_, _Insatiable Yang_, _Veterans of the Psychic Whores_, or, her personal favorite, _Don't Fear the Queefer, _but she didn't want to appear completely out of the loop.

"I think I heard about the last one," she said, "There's that really hot guy with the sword on fire."

"You looked at the DVD cover, you have no idea what happens." said Boobs, snatching the zine back.

A knock came at the window, and a neon sign for the Moonlight Drive-In winked in the distance. "Scoot over, your legs are long." said Boobs, pulling the blanket over both of them as they approached the ticket booth. Her cousin was expected, and a security thug with a yellow beard and black nail polish waved him in.

"Don't go anywhere," said the cousin, as he switched off the headlights and tuned the radio to the appropriate station, "Keep the parking brake on and if anyone asks you say you're eighteen."

"Gotcha," said Boobs as she climbed into the front seat, "Say hi to Nacho Sally for me."

"Yeah..." he said vaguely, walking away toward the siren call of Titties con Queso.

Braceface slid next to her in the passenger seat, saxophone music spooling from the radio as hipsters filled the darkened parking lot. "Man it's gonna get hot without the AC." she said, rolling down the windows.

"Wait," Boobs hissed, laying a hand on her arm, "Crap, they're checking IDs, get down!"

"What?" she asked, cut off as fingers snatched her braids, yanking her to the floormats as two flashlights shone over the windshield.

"I think we lost the cops back at the rest stop." said Sam, assuming they were alone.

"Yeah, and if we're lucky they don't send a helicopter this way." said Dean.

The older boy had a stepped on look, jeans and cotton undershirt thinning at the seams, a fading bootprint on one side of his face, and he watched the sky as if expecting the other shoe to drop.

"The Feds won't be far behind." said Sam.

"You let me worry about slowin' em down, keep to yourself and find us a new ride."

"What're you gonna do, start a tire fire?" asked Sam, "Somebody might get hurt."

"Trust me, I know something that'll block the road for twenty miles both ways," said Dean, a smile creeping up the side of his face, "And no one'll complain."

"Why's he wearing a bloody tuxedo?" whispered Boobs, watching Sam in the window's reflection.

Braceface looked down at the flyer. "Maybe he's cosplaying for _Pyscho Debutante_."

"Naw they showed that last week."

"What about the muscle out front?" asked Sam, "Soon as they get an APB on us they'll start searching cars, we need a diversion."

Both boys turned, reading each other's thoughts as they spied the steel barrels full of paper cups and gas receipts.

"The trash cans," said Sam, fiddling with a cheap lighter, "Lotta black smoke, yeah that'll work."

"Gimme five minutes to get close to the projection booth," said Dean, he said, winding his left arm around Sam's waist until he curved like a stem, "Then fire a round into the trees. They'll all go running the wrong way."

"And then?" he asked, heavy with exhaustion as the older boy reached for his gun and tucked it into Sam's waistband.

Dean waited a beat, swaying gently to the music on the radio. His eyes swept over Sam like a ransom he'd yet to collect. "I'll find you."

The girls held their breath, staring at each other over the gearshift. _ Call 911_, mouthed Braceface, stabbing at her hand with a finger to mimic dialing.

_I don't have a phone_. mouthed Boobs, and she pointed at the door, two fingers walking down her freckled arm to signify a retreat to the nearest exit, when Sam lit the first trash barrel.

It hadn't rained in days, and wrapping a fallen branch in plastic take-out bags, he touched a flame to the end and the whole thing went up like Independence Day. Flies shot out, and soon the whole parking lot was illuminated with columns of black smoke. Braceface had the foresight to roll the windows back up before they choked.

The perimeter was a maze of corrugated steel plates hammered together, and, his slender figure adrift in the smoke, looking for all the world like the Devil's prom date, Sam raised his arm and took aim. The girls jumped at the shot.

_Don't move._ Braceface mouthed, as Boobs was near tears from fright. Men shouted from far away, and Sam turned on his heel to hide, tucking the gun beneath his jacket before moving out of sight.

"It's okay," Braceface whispered soothingly, "They're gone, we can-"

A handle clicked, and Boobs covered her mouth with a trembling hand as Sam shined a light into the covered bed, coughing up smoke and pulling the door shut before throwing himself face down on the flannel blanket. The saxophone had stopped, replaced with the opening musical number from _Sex Dungeon_, and outside everyone turned to watch the story unfold.

* * *

><p>Dean passed the burger stand, a spray-tanned girl in orange shorts and dimestore bling leaning over the greasy griddle with an ass made to be honked at. But he had a hunger that hoochie mamas could never satisfy, and walked on in earnest.<p>

Once the projection booth guy rushed out of sight, mistaking the gunshot and smoke for fireworks, Dean climbed the stairs. The wood railing leaned another ten degrees under his hand, nails rusted red and rough as an old fence. Inside the windows had been blocked out with B movie posters and seven-day candles, a guitar laid in the corner that filled the shack with the gamey tang of sweat on steel strings. Radio equipment took up the back wall, black needles bouncing in time to the actor's voice as Snoozy the animal sidekick prepared to explain love thru a power ballad.

_"Just open your heart Princess and you will see, the magic of life for you and me..."_

He surveyed the available titles, fingers drumming against his chest. "Wow," he said approvingly, "I haven't seen some of these since sixth grade."

And turning off the projector, one eye on the cars streaming down the interstate, he plucked the canister from the shelf and switched out the film. A few car horns bleeped at the sudden blackout, but soon settled once the picture returned, though there was some murmuring when Princess Fair and Mild had been replaced with Kimmi Tan and Shaven. Opening credits played beneath a close-up of Kimmi pushing a lit match into the end of her cigarette, the camera following her hand down to the chunky platform heels on either side of the frame, between which a second mouth itched to suck ash.

He probably should have changed out the audio too, but Dean always liked Snoozy's song as a kid.

_"I keep my love in a happy box, happy box, happy box!_

_I keep my love in a happy box, for that special special boy!"_

And as her cunt took a long drag and blew smoke into the camera lens, the smoke writhed and warped cartoonishly, eventually forming the words _Don't Fear the Queefer_. Even from this distance Dean could hear erections go _thud_ against the steering wheels as traffic slowed in both directions, brake lights filling the dark like a red river. There was some honking, but mostly the interstate was quiet, drivers passing reverently as they partook in this eucharist of smut. A hobo walked alongside the guardrail, and even with a bum knee and fifty pounds strapped to his back, he practically sailed past the captive audience.

_That oughta buy us time._ he thought, as families rushed out of the parking lot, further clogging any entry point for the police. Black smoke coiled around the cars, and snatching an oil rag from the table, he took a deep breath and ventured back outside.

"Hey!" shouted a man pointing at Dean, "The hell you think you're doing?"

"Crap." Dean muttered, having forgotten about the muscle watching the front gate. Three men, all bearded with thick chests and official looking fists stomped toward him, and he flipped over the railing onto a soft pyramid of trash bags.

"Stop!" they yelled, about to say more when they began to hack at the smoke that floated over their heads. Dean was a decent long-distance runner, but he wouldn't last long in this air, and pushing the rag into his face he lept onto the hood of the nearest car and clambered to the roof on all fours.

"Who's there?" said a girl, poking her head out the back window as she and her date hurriedly righted their clothes. But he had no time for comment, as an arm like a cured ham materialized from the fog and struck him in the ribs.

"Gotta go." he muttered to the girl, gripping his side as he jumped onto the next car. The thugs were too heavy to try and climb after him, and so he jumped from car to car, steel silvered in the screenlight and bouncing beneath his heel as he began his merry chase.

The air up high was good enough that he could choose his pace, while the men soon struggled to keep up, and in time the less pressing anxieties came to his mind like worms in turned soil. Fear of going back to jail was replaced with John's profile, standing by a window and offering Dean that awful job in Atlanta, away from Sam. Had that been last night? The old man had seemed genuinely concerned about their rough living, the desperate manner in which the boys lived these days.

_"How long can you bounce back from that?" asked John._

A wet bead rolled down his back, shoulders pumping beneath his cheap cotton shirt as he put more distance between himself and the men. He didn't want to keep Sam waiting forever, but he had to sweat John out of his head first. Flashes of the old man skated across his memory like heat lightning, painfully sharp at first, until eventually his body took over and the chase became a bone exercise, his boots bouncing off the cars as the hired men trailed further and further behind, hacking up black phlegm in the gloom.

When he thought they'd given up, he circled back to where he'd left Sam. The smoke was so thick he could barely see his hand in front of him, and cars drifted in and out of sight, their colors muted and sad. Just when he thought he was well and truly lost, a breeze lifted the hair on his neck, and out of the firelit mire the smoke thinned to reveal the truck, distant and unreal as an Arabian fairy tale.

Placing a hand on the door handle, he searched himself for any misgivings. He did not want to offer himself unless his love was pure.

He thumbed the space on his right hand where the ring used to be, a pale and hollow ghost above the knuckle, and knew he'd done the right thing by giving it away. _Not given away_, he corrected himself as he climbed inside,_ It never went far._

* * *

><p>The movie had started a while ago, but Sam wasn't paying attention. He sat with his arms outstretched along the lip of the cab, the blood buzzing in his head from anticipation. He didn't know how much time they had, but the gun lay in the corner, and all else fails they could shoot their way out and jump the fence into the woods.<p>

"You okay?" he asked, as Dean closed the door behind him.

"Yeah, those guys out front won't be a problem." he said. He was out of breath, and mopped the sweat off his brow with the end of his shirt. "They won't search now, wait til the smoke clears and we can hotwire this thing and leave with the rest of the movie goers."

While Dean was out, the radio announcer had interrupted with a police report. _ "Kidnapping of a United States Senator, suspect at large and possibly armed..."_

"She was in the hospital when we left town," Sam said, as Dean peeled off his filthy shirt, "What did you do to her?"

He laughed bitterly. "Gave her what she wanted."

"She never did anything to you."

"Oh yeah?" Dean said, head raised in challenge, "And what about you? She do anything to you?"

"Well..." he said, recalling the numerous threats to his life last night and thinking she ranked pretty low, "She got me square in the nose that one time..."

"That's not what I meant." he said, tossing his shirt in the corner. He knelt between the boys crooked knees, head bent and eyes glittering in the screenlight, and the radio murmured dirty words as an incandescent fifty-foot beauty succumbed to her vampire captor.

But Sam was not so easily swayed. "She kissed me," he said, a smile toying at the corner of his mouth, "It's not that bad."

"No Sammy, it's worse."

"Why?"

He leaned in, still hot as a furnace from the chase, and the window behind Sam's head began to fog. "Because I can't shoot her when you're done."

Sam's brow furrowed. "It was one kiss."

Dean tilted his chin with one finger, pressing his mouth to him as if to say _Was that all it was?, _while the rest of the parking lot was too distracted by the action onscreen to pay them any notice. As he reached down to undo Sam's shirt, the camera angled away from the bed to a mirror in the ceiling, so that the vampire disappeared and the actress appeared to be writhing under thin air.

The tuxedo was ruined, caked with blood, so that it took Dean some time to work the buttons. He'd hated watching Sam in this thing, and he looked forward to burning it.

They leaned their foreheads together, teeth parted as they breathed in time, time stopping in that cramped truck cab. Sam kept his hands away, fighting the urge to lead. Of all the seductions he had undergone in the past twenty-four hours, this was the gentlest, and he didn't want to rush it.

_"Unhand her, villain!"_ shouted the radio.

_"You're too late!"_ the vampire snarled,_ "She is to be the Master's bride!"_

_"Then take up your sword," _replied the hero, cape snapping the wind,_ "S_o that I might speed thy soul to Hell!"__

Opening Sam's shirt, Sam arched his back, shucking shirt and jacket off in one piece before wrapping his arms around Dean's neck. But Dean moved his hands to own knees, keeping him in place so he could unlace his boots for him.

Sam was impatient, but they had the time for once, and he kept his knees apart in invitation. When his slacks had been removed, Dean placed his hands atop his, resting momentarily to feel the ring underneath, and so thus comforted his fingers trailed his inner thighs to the prize between them.

"Fuck..." Sam muttered, his head thunking against the glass. His mouth was wet and sweet, and if he wasn't careful the party would stop before it ever had a chance to get started.

_"Puny mortal!"_ the vampire jeered, swords clashing as rain lashed a castle parapet, _"Surrender now and I might let you live!"_

_"Never, swine!"_

Sam did not lift his hands, though he wanted to desparately, to twist his fingers in the boy's hair and spur him on, but instead he submitted to the slow torture of the tease, being taken in all the way and then hardly at all, never very fast but never left alone, almost thoughtlessly as a man will suck on a pencil while in contemplation.

Dean needed no such preparation. Just seeing Sam, smiling with a scratched face and a mouthful of blood, was enough to get him up. He undressed, Sam's eyes watching him hungrily.

Years of fighting had burned off the puppy fat, his hard body lying flush against Sam's as he cradled the back of his neck with one hand.

"You ready?" he asked.

He nodded, flush with desire. It couldn't have just been the older boy's body. Sam had had a buffet of ass in the past night, ranging from bombshell to beefcake to bloodthirsty. It was something else. The innate goodness of a man who had been tested and come out clean, who had done his wandering thru the desert and yet hungered for Sam.

"Dean..." he whispered, shuddering as he was taken, and soon they were churning into each other, building a slow heat to see who could make the other give up first.

_"Why do you fight me? We are the same,"_ said the vampire, a hint of mockery in his tone,_ "Except I've no fear of death."_

_"You should,"_ replied the hero, _"Make peace with your god, for the hour of your ruin is nigh!"_

It was easy to forget John. Sam clung to him like he would die if they stopped now, and Dean took some satisfaction in the notion that if he didn't fuck Sam's brains out on a regular basis, the kid would put the world in peril. He had a duty to mankind, even if that meant a long thankless life of pounding the evil out of the kid's exquisitely tight ass.

And as Sam whimpered, always a sign he was close, Dean pressed his hand possessively over the boy's heart. After all he'd done he'd probably spend the rest of his life weeding John out of his soul, and he didn't want the Senator gaining entry just from one stolen kiss. _I'm the only one who gets to do this._ he thought, crashing his mouth against his as he sped up to finish.

"Look at me." Sam whispered, taking Dean's face in his hands. The whites of his eyes shone as if lit from inside, his chest rising and falling. He'd put off finishing for so long with so many creatures that he was actually in pain, and his climax hurtled toward him with a mix of exhilaration and dread.

_"Fool!"_ said the hero,_ "Eternity ends here!"_

A curtain was ripped away, the light of a thousand suns pouring thru the glass, and throwing up his arm, the vampire sank to his knees, melting into vapor as Sam stretched out in agony and felt his heart burst into white flame.

* * *

><p>Some hours later, Dean woke to the faint click of a gun muzzle beneath his ear.<p>

"Hands behind your head."

"Ah fuck, not you guys-" he said, cut off as men in riot gear pinned his wrists.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, on his knees and looking around wildly as he was searched for weapons. Beside the truck, someone sniffed, and Dean craned his neck.

"That's him." said the Senator coldly, looking much worse for wear.

"Sammy, don't say anything!" he warned, wincing as he was put into handcuffs, "You'll be hearing from my attorney!"

The Fed laughed, jabbing a syringe into Dean's bicep, and the last thing Dean saw was Sam's head disappearing inside a black felt bag before he fell back into a dreamless sleep.

Later, there was the deafening whoosh of a helicopter, he could not tell when or where, and the clink of chains about his waist. He felt Sam's knee next to his.

"It's okay Sammy..." he said reassuringly, before a gun butt to the head shut him up.

"Man how long do I gotta stay on the ground?" asked the pilot nervously.

"Just roll these two jokers out and we can head home."

Before Dean could wonder what the pilot meant, they stuttered to a halt, and both boys were rushed outside, wire-cutters snipping the zip-ties on their wrists and ankles.

"Sammy!" Dean said, snapping the bag off his head, "Are you okay?"

"Dean..." said Sam, staring at something in the distance, "We have to get back on the helicopter."

"The fuck, they're not gonna let us-"

"We can't stay here!" Sam shouted, grabbing his arms.

Dean was about to explain the disproportionate ratio of armed commandos to naked teenagers when he noticed the clink again, and looked down. He and Sam had been chained together, the soldier having been in too much of a hurry to bother unlocking them.

"Whatever man, let's just steal some clothes and start walking-"

"Dean, look where we are!" he said, as the helicopter lifted into the air.

The pilot had almost made it to the perimeter before a bang went off somewhere downtown, the sky flashing as an air-to-air missile whistled thru the silent afternoon and plowed into the chopper. It made a brave attempt at steering toward a nearby bridge, then dropped to the earth like a child's toy.

Dean's jaw dropped. "Holy shit, did you see that?"

"Dean!" he said, turning him away from the wreckage to point. Atop a bloody sign, a squirrel gnawed on a human finger, eyeing them with unnatural interest.

WELCOME TO ATLANTA

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	45. Striptease

**The place they're in is a combination of Girls 'R Fun, the Pink Pony, and the Clairemont Lounge (Atlanta is kind of famous for their strip clubs). If any of ya'll come to visit, go straight to Swingin' Richards, do not pass Go, do not collect $200.**

* * *

><p>"How did the Army even find their hiding place?" Sam asked. Dean had drawn a map of the city on the formica table, a mayonnaise blueprint dotted with ketchup to signify vampire sightings. The chain linking them together rattled as he leaned back in his chair, a mosquito humming by his ear.<p>

"Easy," he said, squirting a red X in the southeast quadrant, "Once she picked a spot to nest she filled the damned place with blinky shit, like two acres worth."

"So it's lit up?"

"Hell," he said, switching a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, "They could see it from space."

Sam chewed on his lip, looking around the strip club as he considered their options. Every house they'd broken into stank of the dead, the food rotting or filched by locals on their way out, and while he couldn't lay a hand on the table without it unsticking like old ductape, at least Girls 'R Fun had bottled water under the bar.

"How old is she?" asked Sam.

"No idea," pulling out the folder John had given him, "They got a freeze frame off a gas station camera, but all they saw was this short chick with pink hair."

He looked over the rap sheets, three grainy photos followed by a blank square labeled 'image unavailable'. Having no previous criminal history, the Army provided them with the nicknames of Peaches, Hotsie and Totsie, and Bonnie Furcoat.

"Are those two twins?" Sam asked.

"Must be." he said, tapping a finger over two strawberry blondes in matching bridesmaid dresses, the backs of their hands tattooed with black lace gloves. Where Peaches had a perfectly sculpted sausage curls, Hotsie and Totsie had teased their hair six inches above their head into big nappy afros, the veins on their temples showed up black as they glared sidelong into the camera.

"How'd Bonnie get the nickname?"

"Cuz the first thing she did when she came to town," said Dean, closing the folder, "Was steal the clothes off a dead stripper." He sighed. Girls 'R Fun was his kind of joint, a fairground of lights and mirrors where amazons crushed beercans with their tits, photos of their kids stuck to the coffee room wall, the lingering smell of hair products. It was no place for strippers to die.

"Why's she got so many sightings at the zoo," asked Sam "You think she's sleeping there?"

"I dunno, she likes panda babies?"

Sam raised his eyebrows. "At night?"

"Ah ree-ree duh know," said Dean, words muffled as he squirted ketchup into his open mouth, "Maybe she went pet shopping?"

"_Anyway_," said Sam, as Dean smacked his lips, "So you think they're all sleeping in Camp Blinky?"

"Nah, only Peaches. The twins are north at the college campus, looks like they're building something."

"And Bonnie?"

"Whereabouts unknown dude, no one's seen her."

"These vampires are strange." Sam conceded, watching a mosquito draw circles in the air.

"Tell me about it," said Dean, counting on his fingers, "They're spread really far apart, they're not even trying to hide, they don't come out at _all_ during the day..."

Sam swirled his finger in the map, the mayo and ketchup slowing turning orange. "Why doesn't the government just firebomb the city?"

"Well, ya know what they say," said Dean, eyeing a Confederate flag framed over the door, "Burnt once, twice shy."

"Okay, so Peaches will be easiest to approach by day, we put a hit on her..."

He paused, waiting for Dean to object. "I'm listening." said Dean, an edge to his voice. He wanted to say no, that they should stick to John's original plan, but with a length of chain between them Sam was hardly going to get into much mischief.

"I was thinking about John's plan," said Sam, reading his thoughts, "How're we supposed to lure four vampires to a central location?"

"We know where they live," said Dean simply, "Grab one of them while they're asleep, chain 'em to a telephone pole, and when night rolls around she'll yell for the others and when they come runnin' we unleash the zombie horde."

"A vampire can kill a zombie." Sam pointed out.

"Ah, but can they kill a thousand zombies?" he said, suspecting Sam wanted to check Peaches' temperature vaginally, "It's like knockin' a beehive, you can only swat so many."

"Ow!" Sam yelped as Dean slapped him on the arm.

Dean held up a smear of blood and black wings. "Got her for ya."

"How do you know the others will come?" said Sam, rubbing his arm, "Vampires usually live as a unit, not spread out like this."

"Maybe they don't like each other."

"Then how-"

"You got a better idea?" Dean snapped. "Sorry," he lied, eager to kill some undead and wishing the vampires were uglier, "Hungry is all, makes it hard."

"It's okay," said Sam, "Vampire blood's supposed to give you a boost."

"If it don't turn you." he said, as Sam dug around a grocery bag for something.

"There has to be a blood exchange for turning." said Sam.

Dean snorted. "I read about a guy back in the sixties, drank a cup and fucked like fifty women in one day. They didn't even hardly see him coming, it was like BOOM and they'd be on their ass, flushed and satisfied."

Sam said nothing for few seconds, his face hidden beneath the table. "What happened afterwards?"

"When he dried out? I think his hair turned white."

Sam straightened up, two plastic bricks in his hands. "You think?"

"I dunno, I got...distracted and never read to the end, but so what?"

"Just thinking," said Sam, holding out a brick, "Here, eat one of these."

Dean looked down at the instant noodle pack. "I got no way to cook that."

"No here, you just..." he said, opening the wrapper and breaking off a piece, "You eat it dry."

"The hell, I can't eat that." said Dean, though his mouth began to water.

"I did this all the time, you just add the flavor powder..." Sam explained, ripping open the smaller packet and sprinkling it over the noodles, "Tastes like potato chips."

He held out his hand for Dean to try a piece, but Dean just sat there, toothpick hanging out his mouth. "That's our best option?" he asked.

Sam placed a hand on the table, leaning forward until their faces were inches away. Dean's mouth was wet and ripe, the summer heat pressing on him like a fevered hand so that even indoors his shirt stuck to him. He'd been wanting to yank that chain all afternoon, wrap his hand around it until they were flush against each other. But the sun was sinking, and the city would not sleep for long.

"You won't be hungry." said Sam, extending his tongue and plucking the toothpick from the boy's mouth.

Dean smiled, hooking a finger into Sam's jeans. "C'mere."

"We don't have time." he said, as Dean grabbed the back of his knees, crooking them over his lap.

"C'mon baby boy, place like this got a lotta happy memories. You still gotta dollar in your pocket and I'm feeling..." he said, mouth ghosting over Sam's belly button, "...cheap."

Sam blushed, sorely tempted to jam the boy's face into his crotch and grind against him til he came in his jeans. His hands slid inside the sticky shirt, his knees pressing against the sides of the chair as he half stood half sat over Dean, until he gripped the chain lying slack about Dean's waist. No matter what happened, they would not be separated, and it gave him the strength to delay their love.

"Later," he huffed, "Talk tactics with me, look in the bag."

Dean snatched the bag up. "Whatcha thinkin'?"

"We don't need the zombies. We take some of their blood," said Sam, pulling out a syringe he'd scavenged from the sidewalk, "And fight them ourselves."

Dean shook his head, serious as a heart attack. "No."

"Dean, even if the zombies smoke out all four of them, then what?"

"We shoot the leftovers." he said, pressing his face to Sam's belly as his hands slid over the kid's ass, hoping to jumpstart his dick again.

"You got a thousand bullets?" Sam whispered, hands gentle against the back of Dean's neck, "Cuz I got zero."

"We got a million cars," said Dean, a slow smile creeping up his face, "We hotwire 'em fast enough and we can run over as many as we want. It'll look like a food fight in the parking lot."

"This city is huge, it'll take too long. Better to leave the zombies locked up as a last resort."

"You just wanna eat a Peach," said Dean, twilight pinking the room thru the windows as he felt Sam harden against him, "Or is it the fear goes straight to your dick?"

Sam ground his hips against him, too out of breath to answer. In truth, he'd given a lot of thought in the past few weeks as to how he could convince Dean to share a monster. If he could dose the blood properly, Dean might be horndog enough to take Peaches, and if he dosed it _really_ well then they could hit the zombie penitentiary together and have themselves a veritable bake sale of Spooky Ass.

When nothing more happened, Dean took the hint and let Sam stand up. "Fine," he said, slapping another mosquito on Sam's arm and coming away bloody, "But get us a ride, no way we can walk there before the sun sets."


	46. Peaches

**Reader's note: kudzu is a strangler vine here in the South, just do a Google image search and you'll see what I'm talking about in this chapter.**

**This chapter's dark, so feel free to complain if you're like "wait no quit it"**

* * *

><p>"Are we almost there?" Sam asked, shifting nervously on the bicycle seat.<p>

"Tell ya in a minute." Dean replied, legs pumping the pedals as they crested the last big hill, his arms around Sam's waist.

"Dean slow down!" Sam said, gripping the handle bars tight.

"Relax," said Dean, savoring the skyline at the top, "I got this."

He grinned into the back of Sam's head, hair whipping in his face as they sailed down with a _wheeeeeeeeeeee! _Halfway down, Sam eased up and laughed, their shouts echoing in the empty street. Mailboxes rushed past, an arm in a postman's uniform holding onto the flag as if contemplating whether the swift completion of his appointed rounds made an exception for zombie invasions.

"Hold on." said Dean, swinging one leg over the seat so that he stood on the left pedal.

"Dean, the fuck!" Sam shouted as they cut a tight curve. And grabbing the boy with both hands, Dean lept away from the bike and took them rolling into a soft bed of raked leaves. A squirrel poked it's head out, gnawing on the ice cream man and squinting like an old coot about to shoo two hooligans off his lawn.

They rolled over and over again, the chain about their bodies clinking in the grass until they came to a stop with Sam on top.

"You..._asshole,_" he said, thumping Dean in the shoulder, "We could've broken our necks."

Dean said nothing, grinning as he coiled the chain around his fist to draw Sam in. Sam lay his hands flat on either side of him, their faces very close.

"The sun'll be down soon." Sam reminded him quietly.

"Yeah I know," Dean replied, running a thumb inside the hem of Sam's bluejeans, "I just wanted to hear you make some noise."

"Way to get the drop on a vampire nest." he said, though the job was the least of his worries. Sam couldn't prove it, but little things, tracks in the mud, a lingering smell, a spent shell on the ground, it all pointed to another hunter in the city, the only one who could've gotten the Senator's permission to fly in. He placed his hand on the underside of Dean's thigh, as a man will reserve a parking space, and he was pleased to hear the older boy's breath hitch.

"I got you something." Sam whispered.

"Yeah?" Dean rasped.

Sam reached into his boot with a free hand, pulling out the knife he'd knicked from a pawnshop. He half hoped John would be around to hear Dean screaming Sam's name. "We'll make it quick," he said, sliding it in into Dean's belt, "I take her blood, you take her head, no fuss?"

Dean grinned, positively indecent with bloodlust. "No fuss."

Sam dug in his hips, excited at how hard he made the older boy. "So do you know where she's at?"

Dean tilted his head up. "Under that bridge."

They stood together, brushing grass off their jeans. "Okay let's do this." said Dean.

"Wait," said Sam, fingering something on Dean's chest, "You got something there."

Dean looked down at a stray thread by his collar. "What?"

"It'll just take a second." said Sam, flicking his lighter. He pulled the thread taut, butane hissing as it blackened and snapped from the button. He surveyed Dean, and one by one little hangers-on came away in Sam's hand, like burning ticks off a dog.

Dean never gave a fuck about his clothes. He'd filched the ensemble from a trashbag under a bridge, shaking out the farts and happy to have the sun off his back. But Sam was a big believer in packaging, to be unwrapped at his leisure later in the evening, and Dean grew harder under the boy's careful attentions.

"Okay," said Sam, stepping back to admire his handiwork and wondering if the vampire would care, "That looks better."

"This is it." said Dean, peering over the bridge. A defunct rail line split the land, kudzu stretching over everything like a green ocean until the trees died and became so much wet cardboard. Behind a break in the chainlink fence, foot paths known only to children wended thru the vines, strangling the sunlight so that even cats native to this haunted place cast no shadow.

"I don't see any blinky stuff." said Sam, shielding his eyes against the sunset.

"Comes on at night," said Dean, holding up the chainlink for Sam to clamber through, "Watch your head."

"Hey check this out." said Sam, face dappled in green and black under the canopy. A wire shelving unit full of gardening supplies stood by the entrance, a bald mannequin seated in the adjacent plastic chair with a NO TRESPASSING sign over her crossed legs. Opening the cabinet, he pulled out a gallon of bleach.

"We can do laundry later Martha Stewart."

"I need to clean the syringes," Sam retorted, taking two needles from his jacket pocket, "Lord only knows what people have been putting in their veins."

Dean snorted, declining to comment as Sam pulled the plunger, clear liquid shooting in a thin arc as he filled and emptied it three times into the ground. While Sam practice safe shooting, Dean spared a glance for the mannequin, dirty feet peeking out the bottom of a pageant dress missing half its' rhinestones.

"Keep up the good work." he said, patting a thigh next to the sign, and starting when the muscle jumped under his hand.

"Fuck Sammy," he hissed, grabbing the boy's arm, "That's a chick in there."

Sam looked up from his work. "I thought all the zombies were rounded up."

"Maybe," said Dean warily, holding out his hand to her, "But why don't she move?"

He gave her a cautious poke, and while she was only slightly chill to the touch, she would not speak or avert her gaze to acknowledge them. Looking her over more closely, he saw the divots in her ears and faces where jewelry had been removed, her scalp coarse from being recently buzzed.

"Somebody dressed her like this, posed her," wondered Dean, "Who the fuck does that?"

"What's more," said Sam with clinical interest, "Where are her bite marks?"

Dean blinked. "Man who cares?"

"Zombie infections travel through the bite," Sam said, "There's nothing, no marks, no wounds, even her ear piercings are healed over. Have you ever seen an undead in this good a condition?"

"What's your point?"

Sam tongued his front teeth in consideration. "I wonder what happens when you mix vampire and zombie blood."

Dean had a sudden image of plunging necklines and ancient tits like two slices of bologna, and cringed. "Vombies?"

"Something to think about." said Sam, as he held one of the syringes over her arm.

"Hey what do you think you're doing?" asked Dean, staying his hand.

"The blood must have some regenerative properties," Sam explained, looking down at Dean's grip, "Let go."

"I didn't even agree to doping vampire juice," he said, not releasing him, "Now you're gonna try an arm-full of Princess Roadkill?"

"It could be useful if we're injured."

"Or you could shit blood and go blind, come on think this through." Dean snapped.

"I won't take any now," Sam assured him, "Let me just take a sample."

When Dean did not look comforted, Sam leaned forward and pressed his mouth to his, the chain rattling between them. "How bout you hold onto it for me?"

Dean's gut twisted, he had a horrible feeling about this. But they'd run out of daylight, and this was no time to fight. "Fine," he said, relenting, "But don't even _think_ of guinea pigging yourself."

"Hopefully it won't get to that point." he said, bending over to tap the girl's vein.

Clouds went from lavender to black to smeary patches against the stars. The vines were full of bees and the purple candy smell of kudzu blossoms, and stepping quietly down the path, the first faint lights began to pulse thru the leaves.

"Dean," said Sam, pointing at a set of power cables hooked up to a solar panel and jogging ahead to see where they led, "Must be the girl's power source."

"For what?" Dean asked, untangling his boot from a bramble, "Hey wait up."

The leaves parted into an open space, and the boys drew in their breath in amazement. In a city with no power it must have looked very bright from space, but up this close the vampire's lair was blinding.

"This looks hand made." said Sam, reaching down to take a glass rose in his hand, the copper stem warm with electricity. The colors changed slowly, the petals going thru the full spectrum before turning white and starting all over again. A talented artisan might have made one of these in a few hours, provided he knew how to build a circuit _and_ blow glass _and _hook up a solar array. As far as the eye could see, every square foot outside of the path was lined with such flowers, and every flower was unique, glowing beneath the kudzu canopy like an underwater midnight garden.

"I thought the vampires had only been here a few weeks." said Sam, punchdrunk in love. A gallery of stone maidens looked on with blank smiles, crevices carved from their statue bellies where flowers spilled out like fairy vivisections.

"John did say they were fast..." Dean hazarded, "But why? Why make your own flowers?"

"Because fuck the sun."

They whirled around. Peaches, the fourth most dangerous vampire on the federal watch list, had the pinched look of trash who would sooner blow their last five dollars on gin and steal the toilet paper. Barefoot and not even clearing five feet, pink sausage curls clashing against her orange muumuu, she wasn't scary. She looked..._cheap_. The gold charm bracelets were fake, her nails were some tacky shit, and her nipples tented the fabric suspiciously, as if she'd put ice to them to impress visitors.

Sam was disappointed, having imagined a more storybook vampire, but Dean...

"Well now," said Dean, reaching for his knife, "I guess you know why we're here, so if you-"

He didn't have time to finish. He didn't even see her, except for a flash of pink hair when she grabbed both of them by the throats and flattened them to earth. "Aw man," she said, disappointed as she scanned his features, "I thought you were those other two from last night."

Dean sputtered.

"You haven't seen them have you?" she asked, "Can't miss 'em, young one, old one, total GQ motherfuckers in riot gear."

"The city's been cleared," Dean replied thru his teeth, "I don't know who you're talkin' about."

"Well that's awful funny cuz they showed up in the same kind of helicopter that _you_ did," she said nastily, "And they knew _exactly_ where to find me, same as you."

Dean froze. John. It had to be John, the vampire profiles hadn't been shown to anyone else. "You ain't exactly hiding." he said, bobbing his head toward the glowing flowers. But his sarcasm fell flat, and she narrowed her eyes.

"You're lucky I'm working tonight," she said, one heel against Dean's windpipe, "You might last another day or two."

She released him, and Dean sucked in great lungfuls of air, about to reach for his knife, but the next second they were carried away, dragged by their boots as easily as dolls to an even more remote part of the garden.

"Sammy..." he croaked, looking over to his side. He took in his surroundings as they were set down at the base of a statue holding an electroluminescent spray of lilies.

"Oh fuck," said Dean, dizzy from the trip, "Sammy you okay?"

"Fine," he said, grabbing his hand, "But I don't think they are."

Handcuffed to metal desk chairs, three girls sat tear-stained and trembling, dressed head-to-toe in black goth gear, the one furthest away draped in a tablecloth down to her spiked boots. Left and Center huddled as far away from the Right as possible, ashamed to be associated. Peaches patted her hair into place, muumuu swishing about her ankles as she turned away from the boys.

"Now where was I..." Peaches mused, "You've had all day to decide ladies."

The girls whimpered, and the one under the tablecloth made a noise that wasn't even human.

"Who's it gonna be?"

"Neh...neh..." Center sobbed, shaking her head in refusal.

"Come on, this is quality vintage," said Peaches with wicked glee, "Way better then cutting parties."

Sam snuck a glance at the girl under the tablecloth and felt his stomach freeze, plastic tubing coiling in and away from her that hooked up to a water pump.

"Whoooooo's it gonna be?" Peaches teased, leaning into the girl's face as mascara tears rolled down her cheek, "Whoooooo's our lucky contestant for the evening? We've had so many happy volunteers so far, just look at their _smiling_ faces."

She gestured with arms outstretched, and the boys looked round, their horror mounting.

"They're real," said Sam, touching the statue behind him, her face white with chalkdust and frozen in dumb surprise, "All those girls we saw earlier..."

"No, please," sobbed Center, "Just kill us already."

"Why should I?" said Peaches, yanking her by the ankh earrings with both hands.

"We were just fucking around!"

Peaches' pulled a set of plastic fangs from her pocket, and began snapping them in the girl's face like a castanet. "You like running around like a fucking monster minstrel show do you?"

The girl blubbered, embarrassed that she hadn't spent more money on her cosplay items.

"It's time to decide," she said, crushing the teeth into powder, "So one of you, right now, tell me, who's...gonna drink...from the _tap_?"

The girl under the tablecloth shouted thru a gag, chair wobbling back and forth, and the other two girls recoiling in terror as they watched her. They no longer recognized her as a friend. She was unsalvageable, diseased, the bad taste in their mouth overriding any good memories like biting thru a tumor in your chicken sandwich.

"I'm waiting!" she said.

"I'll do it!" shouted Left, "Just let me go home!"

Peaches smiled. "Good girl." she cooed, wiping her hand clean on the girl's shirt.

"You...bitch!" Center shouted as the other girl was uncuffed, "I've known you all my life!"

"Calm down, it won't kill you," said Peaches, "Probably."

Center became very quiet, head turning toward the covered hostage. "But it'll kill her."

The free girl put out a trembling hand and lifted the tablecloth. Sam thought he would be sick, and looked away to press his face into Dean's shoulder. For once, Dean wished he could have put another human being out of their misery.

The girl in the chair sat hunched over, wide-eyed with fear and stinking of infection. A single plastic tube connected her to the water pump by her feet, the second tube left dangling. Professionally knotted stitches ran up the left side of her chest, black thread Xed on either side of the brass tap lodged deep in her chest, polished and bouncing slightly to the rhythm of her heartbeat.

The free girl took up the second tube, numb with shock as she turned to her friend. "D-don't worry," she stammered, forcing the girl's jaw open, "It's probably not s-so bad."

"Fuck you," she whispered, a hard glitter in her eyes, "I hope it kills me just so I can haunt your ass."

She regarded her best friend in that moment, her mouth contorted and made ugly between her fingers. All those seemingly untouchable alliances, Girl Scout oaths, selling cigarettes behind the bleachers together, letting Mike Polinsky fingerbang her at a birthday party and not saying shit to her mom, turned to ashes in the face of death. And looking to Peaches for permission, she jammed the second tube down the girl's throat.

"Good job," said Peaches, "Most people hit the lungs on their first try and _wow_ that's a show."

Dean glared at Sam. _Now?_ he mouthed.

Sam shook his head. Peaches was starting to change, her teeth extending, and once she began to feed on one of the girls she would be at her most vulnerable. Only then could they make their move.

Left stepped away, her face pasty and unnatural as she walked over to the water pump. She'd been cuffed to that chair all day, and freedom made her feel oddly powerful. All around them pulsed the midnight garden, soft colors swimming thru the greenery in unearthly constellations.

Dean watched Peaches start up the water pump, the knife itching in his boot, but Sam squeezed his hand, _Not yet._

"Okay now, say it with me boys and girls," said Peaches, clapping her hands before turning the Tap open with a twist of her white fingers, "_Sangria_!"

Dean had once seen a hunter take a punch to the gut that had left no outer mark, but cut something deep inside. It wasn't until the dude puked up a pint of his own blood that he realized anything was amiss. The stomach is not stupid.

Black blood shot down the first tube as the valve opened, aided by gravity. Center looked on in horror, clamping the tube between her teeth as if she could prevent what was coming, and the world telescoped as it snaked it's way toward her mouth.

"I'm so sorry..." said Left, turning away.

Center's felt her belly grow like a warm water balloon, the girl on the other end turning whiter by the second, eyelids at half-mast and oddly resigned to her fate. With the tears and that carnival light, she looked like a lost child at the fair, chewing on a licorice rope and wondering where everybody had gone.

When the Tap finally slowed down, Peaches turned the valve off.

"Veeeeery nice," she said, yanking the tube out of her throat, "Wasn't that good?"

Center swallowed hard, trying not to be sick. If she could just keep it down, she might be allowed to live.

"Ya know, I had a hard time getting all this equipment," said Peaches conversationally, "The pump was easy, that's a hardware store run. And the handcuffs, well, lotta dead cops in the streets."

The blood bubbled inside her, screaming to come up.

"Now the _tubing_..." she said slyly, "That took a little digging. Businesses shut down last week, and the hospitals had moved all their gear. I even tried looking for a moonshine still, but Blue Laws are pretty fierce 'round here. I figured I was out of luck."

Center sat perfectly still, watching Peaches swing the plastic tube in a loop like a lasso.

Peaches leaned in for the punchline. "But you find all _kinds_ of stuff behind the dialysis clinic."

The girl felt her stomach flip. She clenched down, her face shiny with sweat.

"Uh uh," said Peaches, clamping a hand over her mouth, "Don't you waste a good thing."

The girl heaved, taking deep breathes and trying to stay calm, but with nowhere to go, she swallowed wrong, and twin red streams poured out of her nose as she began to drown.

"That's it," whispered Peaches, appearing not to notice the other girl sneaking away, "Not you can tell all your friends you're _bona fide_."

"Hey!" Sam hissed to her as Left attempted to creep away. She blinked at him, _What?_

He motioned to the empty chair, if they could cuff the vampire, buy some time...

But she wasn't herself anymore. Shaking her head, desperate to never see this place again, she began to run, glass flowers crunching under her boots as she knocked them aside.

"She won't get far." Dean muttered, holding Sam protectively at his side, and indeed the moment Peaches looked up from her hostage, she vanished, a sickening crack echoing in the gloom a moment later.

"There's nothing we could've done," Sam assured him, "Don't rush into anything."

Peaches took her time walking back, stooping to pick up pieces of glass while the girl twitched in her chair, gave a wet death rattle, and slumped with her eyes fixed on the spot where her friend had fallen. She'd outlived her after all.

The Tap lifted her head, and eyes huge over her gag, she managed a weak, unhinged giggle.

"What's so fucking funny?" Peaches asked, irritated as she flipped down the kerchief between the girl's teeth.

"I get to leave." she croaked, white as paper.

Peaches voice dropped. "They were your friends."

"You said...if it didn't kill me..."

"Oh yeah, that..." said Peaches, and wrapping her fingers around the tap, she gave it a hard yank. It was too dark to see much, but she was drained in three quick jets of blood, the girl looking down at the hole in her body and scrabbling against her restraints as if she could stuff it all back in. She looked up at Peaches for any sign of pity, when a cup was laid flat against her.

"Please..." she begged, the world fading as the cup overflowed.

Peaches leaned against the chair with her free hand, locking eyes with the girl until her heart stopped. She took a long slow slip, not breaking the stare. The girl _had _lasted this long, and deserved some credit. Maybe she was wrong to kill her.

But then, after a moment's consideration, Peaches remembered herself, and spit it back in the girl's face.

"Fucking race traitor." she said, flinging the cup into the bushes as blood trickled off the arm chair with a _plink plink. _ It wasn't a lot of blood, but enough of a buzz to slow her down so that Dean's arms around her came as a suprise.

"Fuckin' do it Sam!" he shouted. He'd been wary about taking vampire blood before, but now...Sam jammed the needle into her neck, filling it as she struggled under Dean's chokehold.

"You guys are _so_ dead!" she yelled. She might've been fast, but she weighed next to nothing and came up to Dean's chest. She could not escape on brute strength alone.

Sam looked up at Dean for last second confirmation, and nodding, he pushed the needle into his own arm.

"You okay?" Dean asked when Sam didn't answer right away. His head felt ten stories tall, the blood burning his brain from the bottom up as Dean's voice slowing to a ridiculous low warble. Time dilated, crickets were deafening, mile-long clouds scraped against each other like glaciers. And then, just as suddenly, everything clicked into place.

Sam rushed her, knocking them both to the ground so she was sandwiched between the boys. The blood magnified every anxiety he'd had while watching her, like pointing two mirrors at each other until his desire stretched into infinity, and crushing his mouth to hers, his brain officially checked out for the evening.

"Sammy what the fuck, get off of her!" Dean shouted.

She responded right away, sucking bruises into Sam's lower lip as she inhaled his scent. The Tap had been low class, lacking in character with blood like cat piss, but these boys were something else. Fearless. Beautiful. Top shelf.

She twisted her head around to let Sam take her neck, and caught the look in Dean's eye. She'd been ready to feed, but now she was willing to put it off for a while. Dinner always tasted better when you had to chase it.

"Sammy, get...off her!" he said, yanking Sam away, and it gave her the room to wriggle out from his grasp, landing a punch on the side of his face that made him see double.

Sam lay beside Dean's prone form, chest rising fast as he watched her, only barely registering that Dean might be hurt. He could see the world at the cellular level, her skin, her hair, the wrinkles in her ruby lips, and soon he was drunk on her beauty.

She flipped him over on his belly, the chain rattling as he was turned.

"Were you thinking about me?" she whispered in his ear.

Sam nodded, his cheeks flushing as her breasts pressed against his back.

"What were thinking?"

He swallowed. "I was thinking...about how to steal your blood."

"Uh huh..." she said, a hand following the curve of his spine.

"And then..." he said, closing his eyes for a second as her nails scraped his skin, "And then if we managed to hold you down, we brought a knife..."

"And where," she said, reaching around to undo his belt, "Were you going to put that knife?"

He was shaking with lust now, knowing he had the strength to kill her but drawing it out nevertheless. "We were gonna...take your head."

"Sounds like you've done this before," she said, his pants coming undone, "So tell me, what do you two do..._after_ a kill?"

Sam let out a little noise, so hard in his jeans that he thought he would die if she didn't touch him. Dean muttered something, and looked over in confusion.

"Because," she continued, pushing Sam's pants down until the cool air hit his ass, "I may not look that old, but I bet I can do some things better."

Dean blinked, was Sam really letting her do this? Sam leaned into his folded arms, face twisted around to look at her as she stuck two fingers in her mouth.

"Are you gonna be good for me?" she asked.

He nodded, fuck he'd been waiting for this the second they'd hit the city, hell this was _better_.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," she said, grabbing his hip with her free hand, "Or I swear I will turn your friend into something that _dogs_ wouldn't eat."

Dean lunged for her, but she smacked him away easily.

"Wait your turn." she said, sparing him a look of disdain before driving into Sam.

Sam's mouth dropped open in shock. She was little but she knew what the hell she was doing, and if she didn't slow down he was fairly certain he'd come before he had a chance to return the favor. _ And what will she do if I _can't_ fuck her?_ he thought.

"Fuck..." he hissed, arching beneath her.

"I didn't say you could fucking move." she said. He'd never had a girl do this to him, and feeling her palm flat against her back, he struggled not to move into her hand as she took slow measured strokes, his cock scraping against the ground.

"Still wanna kill me now?" she whispered.

He whimpered, not wanting her to stop it felt so amazing. His cock was on fire with her blood pumping thru his veins, if she didn't slow down he'd come with just her fingers inside of him, hard and assured and slick as black oil.

"You're really close aren't you?" she said, "You're gonna make a hot mess all over my lawn? Outside, in the great outdoors like a stray humping my leg?"

He bit his lip, if he'd known it could be this good...

"Turn around." she ordered, removing her hand. His body whined to be filled again, but he hurried to face her, losing his breath when he saw she'd removed her dress.

She took a good look at his cock, bobbing toward her, slick and angry red. And running a finger over the tip, she gave it a hearty slap. He yowled in pain.

"Get your knife." she said, and before Dean could stop him Sam yanked it from his boot. She took it gently, placing the tip of the blade at her collarbone. "Baby's getting thirsty?" she asked, smiling as she pierced the skin, a thin red trickle falling over her breast. He slavered to see it, tongue hanging out obscenely, but she kept him at arm's length.

"Only one way you're getting more." she said, thoroughly enjoying herself now.

"Anything." he rasped desperately.

"Come," she said, pulling his face in close for another kiss, "Come right now, on my tits."

He didn't need to be told twice. And clutching his aching cock, he bracketed her supple waist with his legs and began working himself over her.

"Please," he begged, as her hands fell away, "Touch me."

She smiled. "No," she said, "We haven't gotten there yet."

He looked down at her mouth, lips wet and impossibly red, wondering how her teeth felt...

"When I tell you to, you're gonna finish all over me. And then, if you really wanna make me happy," she said, low so Dean was out of earshot, "You're gonna fuck your friend on top of me."

He closed his eyes, his orgasm building at the base of his spine and threatening to overpower him.

"Now." she said, and spilling over his hand, a hot salty stream jetted over her, pooling into her neck, her belly, everywhere until it mingled with the blood she'd drawn. He gasped, amazed to find himself still hard and eager after that little explosion.

"Still want the blood?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Then be a good boy," she said, hands on either side of her head, "And lick it."

He hesitated for a second, not sure if she was serious. He was almost convinced he was dreaming. And then lowering his head, watching her thru his bangs as he extended the tip of his tongue, he took a cold, plum nipple into his mouth, and sucked off copper and salt alike with a slow swirl.

She lowered her eyelids in satisfaction, watching him clean her until her skin shone, his tongue wide and hot against her tits, hungry as a kitten in a cream dish.

But the best part of all was the look on Dean's face.

"He's beautiful," she said, as Dean came to, shocked at what he was seeing, "No wonder you got him on a leash."

He looked down at the chain between them. It hadn't kept Sam out of trouble after all.

"The leash," said Dean, wrapping it around his fist, "Is for _me_." And yanking her out from under Sam, he flattened himself on top of her, snatching the knife out of her hand.

She laughed as he pressed the blade to her throat, she hadn't had this much fun in years. "You can't kill _me_," she said, "You don't have the strength."

Sam was on top of him now, crushing Dean against her. "Come on," Sam pleaded, "She's _letting_ us."

Dean's hand shook as the blade cut her skin, a single drop spilling on the steel. Sam was hard against his back, because, really, it wasn't gonna get better then this.

"Drink her." said Sam.

An image of the Tap came to Dean's brain, and he was nearly sick. "She's a murderer." he hissed, pressing the knife down harder.

"Yes," she cooed, "I am." And taking his hand away from her throat, as easily as if he weren't even there, she took the tip and placed it under her left breast. "But so are you."

She had recognized him what he was. He _had_ to make a kill. It defined him so utterly that he would never submit otherwise.

Dean began to shake as she guided the knife, the tip breaking the skin before slowly disappearing under her ribs the first couple of inches, blood chilling his skin as it soaked his shirt.

"Isn't this better?" she asked him, "Isn't this where it ought to go?"

The knife went in a little deeper, all the while she held his gaze, waiting for him to show signs of weakness, and fuck, he really couldn't kill her, could he? He could cut into her over and over again, and she'd fucking take it and pop right back up.

She'd probably even enjoy it.

"Take him." she ordered Sam, and Dean sat dumbly, not sure what sort of devil's bargain he was signing on, but John had left him, so he guessed he was free to fuck up his own life now.

"Dean..." Sam whispered in his ear, "Drink her. Drink her now. It's worth it."

"No," he rasped, pulling himself away, the knife handle sticking out of her ruined chest, "I'll lose my mind."

Sam's spat into his hand. He was so excited to actually have this happen he was afraid he'd come just looking at the two of them underneath him. "It's gonna be okay." he said, running a soothing hand along Dean's shoulder.

_This wasn't what I wanted. _he thought as Sam drove into him. In his weakest moments, it was John. It was always John. _Never fuck the quarry_, he'd always said. He would never have that now. He had bound himself to Sam and this was the bed he'd made.

She let go of Dean's hand, the knife standing expectantly. "Go ahead," she said, "It's yours."

A dark current mingled in his soul, like ink in troubled water. Sam felt amazing, he always did after a bad job, and and taking a last shuddering breath, he leaned in until the steel cut thru her heart and came out the other side.

"Oh _fuck_ that's it," she hissed, the black veins in her temples throbbing, "_Twist it_."

He did so, a little noise escaping him as she shut her eyes, mouth straining in agony, Sam's body a hot crushing weight against him, and as his knees scrabbled to find purchase on the grass, he found he could barely stay in place for all the blood, but still he kept on, until Dean's cock was crushed against her, slipping and sliding over her flat belly as something broke inside of him.

_John_, Dean thought as he felt himself about to finish, tears in his eyes, _I'm so sorry._

* * *

><p>They lost track of time. Eventually the girl got bored of watching them, and pushed them off of her.<p>

"And to think," she said, dripping like a Mayan sacrifice, "I was gonna waste your asses."

Dean watched as she pulled the knife from her breast, the wound closing as she let it land in the grass at his feet.

"I hate you." he hissed.

"I know," she said, smiling as she marked his chest with a bloody footprint, "But if you hate me..." she said, leaning in to show all her teeth, "You're gonna _love_ my friends."

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	47. Hotsie and Totsie

**Yes, this building exists, it's the material sciences department for Georgia Tech.**

**No I'm not a chemist. Pardon my chemistry fu in this chapter, for it is weak.**

**This story line makes a number of Civil War references. Atlanta was burned down in 1864, and General Sherman made a habit of twisting all the rail lines going into the city, known as "Sherman neckties".**

**Bonus points if you can spot the Tarentino joke.**

* * *

><p>Peaches shoved the boys to the pavement, handcuffs biting into their wrists. "Ya'll don't go nowhere," she said, wiping her hands on her dress, "I'll let our host know we've arrived."<p>

Dean lifted his eyes, craning his neck until it cracked. John's intel had mentioned something about a construction project, but this was Georgia, he'd pictured something along the lines of a tar paper shack. He had no idea vampires could _weld_.

The tower sat atop an old science building, red brick and plate glass cocooned in lengths of black steel that wound in a tight spiral staircase and swayed slightly as it disappeared into the cloud-line. Moonlight did not soften it, only casting an impossibly long shadow across the campus like the needle of a clock.

"Wow something smells terrible," said Sam, squinting at a brass marker, "And what does that say over the fans?"

"What fans?" asked Dean distractedly. Two industrial fans, each the size of a car, sat at the base nearby, angled at ninety degrees toward each other with exposed blades sucking the night air to some unseen reservoir that stank of gasoline and hot gristle.

"Sammy," Dean said, eyes still fixed upwards, "You see something up there?"

But Sam was not listening. "It's probably a plane."

"You think they'd let in commercial flights after a zombie invasion _and_ a vampire attack?"

Fluttering in the pale light, something stretched in the air with a high whistle, headed straight for them. Dean's eyes widened.

"Back up!" he shouted, struggling to his feet.

But it was coming too fast, and before he had time to close his mouth, the body slammed into the fans and sprayed across the front of the building in twin fans of gore.

"Holy shit, did you see that?" asked Dean, eyes stinging with blood.

When the moon came out again, brass letters glinted in the center of a huge dripping heart.

LOVE MANUFACTURING BUILDING

"They're ready to see you," said Peaches, as Dean hurriedly wiped his face on his sleeve, "Mind your step."

Grabbing them by the scruff of their necks, she led them up the stairs part of the way, releasing them once they were too high to jump safely. Walking ahead a few steps, Dean grit his teeth as he was treated to the hypnotic figure eight of her ass, _his_ knife strapped to _her_ waist.

"This is a lot of steel," Sam asked conversationally, forcing the words thru the rising wind, "Where'd your friends get so much?"

She inclined her head for his benefit. She could hear squirrels farting in Tennessee. "Rail," she answered, "Wouldn't be the first time somebody fucked with the Atlanta train lines."

"Why build something so big?"

"They're into stargazing," she said, "Now that traffic's stopped and she shot most of the planes out of the sky-"

_So that's where that land-to-air missile came from._ thought Dean.

"-there's zero light pollution." she said carefully, as if she'd read the term more often then said it.

Sam licked his lips, eager to pump her for information. "I like your, um, graffiti."

"Oh, the heart ain't mine. This is all the sisters' right here," she said, patting the steel, "They worked at an auto body shop growing up. One had a mig welder, the other had a spraycan."

"What about the other one," asked Dean, remembering Bonnie Furcoat, the vampire the Feds had been unable to identify, "There were four of you, right?"

"You don't wanna talk about her in front of the sisters." she advised.

"Why?"

"Cuz they had to put her in the ground," she said, looking over her shoulder, "The twins might have some fucked up ideas of fun, but..."

Dean smiled to himself. _ They're scared of her. _he thought, tucking this fact away for later consideration.

The boys climbed ever upwards, the chain clinking between them in a sky that hadn't seen air traffic in weeks. Though each segment was twenty feet wide, the boys huddled together for fear of tripping over the edge, marching in lockstep as the silent city spread out before them. At least with a spiral staircase, they could only look up so far.

"The fans are pretty cool too," Dean hazarded, "That girl though, she didn't scream or nothin'."

Peaches snorted. "Probably she'd seen worse already."

Sam shot him a questioning look, _Are they gonna kill us?_

Dean swallowed nervously,_ Dunno, why else would they haul us up here?_

Clouds misted their faces, the flowers of Peaches' dress gone gray as dew settled in her hair, cotton clinging in places that had seen a lot of bill collectors before undeath claimed her status as trailer park queen. _Hey, more cushion for the pushin'_. Dean's dick chimed in, and he glared at it reproachfully.

After what seemed an eternity, they arrived at the edge of a wide platform, plates of corrugated steel knit together with a surprising lack of care. Unsecured edges flapped in the wind and sprang up under their heels as they walked across it, and Peaches held out her hand to stop them at the center, two inches of rusty metal all that separated them from a hollow mile drop.

"She awake?" Peaches asked, her voice echoing in the well beneath them.

The clouds parted, and thru the murk they could just make out two seated figures, one curled sideways in sleep, the other hunched forward with her hands clasped. "Give her a minute," said the latter, "She just ate."

The boys' eyes adjusted, and upon closer inspection the 'sleeping girl' was in fact looking all around her, arms twitching involuntarily as she whispered secrets to the empty air. The girl sitting opposite, her double in all other aspects, watched her patiently. Behind them stood a telescope, perched atop a retrofitted half of an ATM machine that had been burnished to a mirror shine.

Hotsie and Totsie, respectively the second and third most dangerous vampires on the federal watch list, were the tallest girls Dean had ever seen, sinewy limbs black from years of outdoor work. They wore matching black bridesmaids dresses that barely cleared their asses, tattoos lacing the tops of their breasts and shoulders, and had bleached their hair into a golden foam about their heads so that when the moon hid their heads appeared to be floating.

"How many'd she take?" asked Peaches.

Hotsie totted up the numbers on one hand. "Seventy?"

"Shit," said Peaches, swiping a pink lock out of her eye, "You guys gotta learn how to dose correctly."

"I left you one, in case you stopped by." said Hotsie, pointing to a corner. Peaches looked round and clapped her hands in delight at a girl trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey beside a work table of kitchen implements.

"You're my favorite person. Here," said Peaches, shoving the boys to their knees, "Do whatever you're gonna do."

Hotsie waved acknowledgement, not taking her eyes off her sister.

"What's wrong with her?" asked Sam, as Peaches fired up a blender in preparation for her next victim.

Hotsie ignored his question. "You the ones came in yesterday on a helicopter?"

"Yeah, why?"

She smiled. "Like my greeting card?"

Sam blinked. "You fired the missile at us?"

"I needed the target practice," she said, standing up, "The fuel I've been mixing is pretty weak, I've been filching the leftovers from the local power plant to make up for what I can't find here in the school labs."

She stretched, bony arms popping as skin shown thru chemical burns in her dress. They were recent, and gave off an acrid stink that Sam recognized from his days of making homemade hand grenades out of fertilizer and pickles jars, and it put him on his guard.

"That's actually...pretty rad." Dean admitted, always a big feminist when it came to babes packing heat.

"And how do you think she's been making her fuel?" Sam whispered, leaning in close, "It smelled _really_ weird down by those fans, any idea what that might be?"

Dean stopped to consider. "You don't think she chopped up that girl for fun, do ya?"

"No," said Sam, "I don't. I think Peaches is an evil cracker that likes to hurt folks, but..."

"So why?" asked Dean, "Why turn people into hamburger?"

Hotsie turned to face him. "You do a lotta work on cars?"

"As a matter of fact-"

"Ever had to convert a diesel engine for bio-fuel?"

His brows knit in consideration. "Uh..."

"I have," she said, turning the chair around, secretly glad for company, "Not hard, replace a few rubber gaskets and check your filters mostly. But the fuel itself..."

"Lemme guess," said Dean slowly, hoping to stall for time, "Buncha hippies rolled up with a barrel of cooking grease?"

"A barrel, they brought a tank truck," she snorted, "And I had convert it all to diesel for 'em. The pay was good, but do I look like a chemist?"

The boys laughed nervously at the little joke, while behind them the blender started up and Peaches' victim began to beg. They had a while before the sun came up.

"I bet you ended up making a lot of soap instead," said Dean, smiling hard, "I tell ya Sammy, ya know what the smell down at the bottom reminds me of?"

"What?"

"Remember Dixie, went off the grid out in the Rockies for a year?"

"Yeah, why?"

"She built a...thing to make her own cooking gas, filled a black barrel with horse shit and corked it out in the sun with a tube running out the top."

"Wait, she built a methane digester?" asked Sam, impressed that Dean recalled anything more technical then how to order fake asses out the back of a nudie magazine.

"Whatever, she used it for when she ran out of firewood, showed me how to make soap out of kitchen grease with it." said Dean, and Sam began to form a notion in his head for what those fans really amounted to. He remember that soap recipe, you needed methanol to even out the pH of your fat base.

Sam looked down between his knees. He knew what he was kneeling on now, and the size of it frightened him. "This isn't just a stairway, is it?"

She took the measure of him. "You're smarter than you look."

"Sammy?" Dean asked, "The hell are you talking about?"

"It's..." Sam hesitated, hoping he got this right, "It's like a gun barrel. A really, really long one."

"For _what?_"

But Sam pointed his next question at Hotsie. "The fans, you're circulating the air under the building to regulate the temperature, aren't you."

"They built storm shelters under all the classes, after the tornado took out downtown last time," she said, "You could hide the whole zip code under this school."

"That's a lot of fuel you're cooking," Sam guessed, now totally improvising, "Why do you need so much?"

She ran a hand over the telescope, a vampire longing for the peace of interplanetary darkness. "Escape velocity."

Sam stared at in wonder, amazed that he'd been right on the first guess, and Dean hissed, "What the fuck are you _talking_ about?"

"How much methanol did Dixie get off of one compost barrel?" asked Sam carefully.

Dean blew out his breath. "I dunno, on average? She might could heat a cup of coffee."

"And how many barrels would you need," Sam asked, looking away, the chemical formula springing before him as he looked from the telescope to Hotsie, "If you wanted to propel a rocket?"

Dean began to follow his logic, that one silent girl suddenly becoming a procession down the length of the tower, all boiled down into a vapor to tweak the vampire's fuel supply.

"Thousands."

Somewhere nearby, Peaches asked a question and then gave herself an answer, the other girl eerily silent in this exchange. "If it makes you feel any better," said Hotsie, "They were already dead before I tossed them over the side. Now if you'll excuse me..."

She turned back to attend to her sister. The tower's shadow was growing, and in a few hours they would be sent back into the ground, another day snatched away by an even bigger blonde bitch.

"Wow..." Sam whispered as she walked away, the mists swallowing her up until she became a vague outline. It took him a minute to realize Dean was staring at him, eyes big as an owl.

"...what?" asked Sam warily.

Dean dropped his voice an octave. "In a world..."

"Oh shit, I _hate_ when you do this..."

"...gone _mad_."

"Sssh they're gonna _hear_ us!" Sam hissed.

"They came from beyond our dimension with a thirst for knowledge..." he said, head whipping around with eyes half-lidded, "...and _passion_."

"Quit...quit it..." Sam choked, shaking with laughter as Dean crawled forward on his knees.

"Prepare for invasion, puny humans!" he whispered, right against Sam's back now.

He could feel the hot breath on his skin, the desperate note in Dean's voice that let on just how scared he was for the both of them.

"_Spaaaaaaaaaaace_ Vampires, om nom nom nom nom nom!" he said, play-biting Sam's neck until he drowned in giggles.

"This is _totally_ going on my Kink Bingo card. And the look on your face, when you two were talkin' chemistry back there..." said Dean, "What do you even call that?"

"Call what?"

"A space vampire," he asked wonderingly, dreaming of toothy astronauts with silver traffic cones for bosoms, "Count Spacula?"

"This isn't funny!" whispered Sam, returning to his senses, "Do you have idea how dangerous this all is?!"

"Oh yeah stand back, she might do _science_ to you."

"Dean, we are sitting on a _launchpad_," he hissed, "This tower, it's gonna aim whatever flying bus she's constructed into outer space."

"So let the nerdy bitches go moonwalking, who cares?" said Dean, as Peaches lost interest in her current prey and Hotsie made to move the boys.

"You didn't have to kill people," said Sam, as she snatched up the chain and led them away, "You could've hit up a farm, grabbed a herd of cattle..."

She laughed. "You think I killed all those folks just for making rocket fuel?"

Peaches stood beside a blender dark with rendered meat. A young girl in a school uniform sat curled up by the telescope, clinging to it with a ruined stump at the end of one wrist as the vampire reached for her. Though they both stood before the gleaming surface, it only reflected one girl.

"Here, tie this around the end," said Peaches, holding out a rubber hand as blood squirted in all directions, "You might last longer."

The schoolgirl spat out a garbled curse, but Peaches only grinned and clutched her arm, nails marking the skin until the girl's eyes softened and her mouth dropped open stupidly.

"Dean..." said Sam, looking over at the mirror. The girl's reflection had vanished. Or rather...

"So, ready for another round?" asked Peaches, her bare feet now opposite a pair of saddle shoes in the mirror, "I love a girl who can dance."

She held up her arms, thumb and forefinger against her forehead to imitate holding a top hat, and the boys watched in disbelief as she and the girl's form moved in parallel within the mirror.

_ "Me...and my shaaaaadow...walking down the avenue..." _

__So this is how they got so powerful_, _thought Dean, now understanding why Totsie was hearing voices after a feeding,__ They don't just take the blood.__

Plucking a length of pipe from the ground, she began to twirl it like a cane, her toes leaving little prints as the unresponsive schoolgirl bled a slow puddle.

_All those souls they took,_ _all that power,_ Dean thought, _No wonder they can't be killed._

"So you boys wanna hear my idea?" asked Hotsie.

Dean looked up, the black tower tingling beneath them as heat lightning erupted. "What, we don't get to cannonball off the side of your heavy metal album cover?" he said, grinning, "I think I need bigger hair for that."

"Oh don't worry," assured Peaches, "You're gonna be a meatshake either way."

"Here's the deal," said Hotsie, "You guys can walk, _if_ you send a message to your friends in the riot gear."

_John_. "And what's that?"

"Back off," she said, "We only needed the city for food and construction material, a few more days and we'll be out of your hair."

"All four of you?" asked Dean, eyebrows raised as Sam shot him a warning look.

But Hotsie did not rise to the bait. "She had to be put down," she declared, a bloody blender to her left and dissociative schizophrenia to her right, "She was _crazy_."

Dean snorted. "Fine. Three in the sky, one on the ground. You mind telling me where you hid your friend?"

Hotsie and Peaches glanced at each other. Shit they must've been _terrified_ of Bonnie to be so secretive. "She won't wake if she's not disturbed." Hotsie assured him.

"And how many box tops," asked Dean, looking at the mirror where Peaches' still wore a dead girl's shape, "Did she collect before you all buried her alive?"

Hotsie looked away.

"That's what I thought." said Dean. Madness came with the power, a hot mass of souls clinging to their insides like a nuclear reactor, and Bonnie Furcoat must have claimed the lion's share of the recent holocaust to become so feared.

Sam looked at Peaches. "Can you let her go?" he asked, his voice low, "Can you let any of them go?"

Peaches looked at her stolen reflection, and then bunched up Sam's shirt collar in her fist. The power flowing thru her veins would keep her going til the stars went cold. "Why should I?"

"Fuckin' kill 'em already," said Hotsie, wiping the corners of her mouth, "They ain't gonna bargain."

"You kill 'em," said Peaches, tossing Sam over, "I gotta do all the work around here?"

She held out Dean's knife, the edge flashing as lightning crackled overhead.

"Wait, we're not done talking..." Dean pleaded Hotsie pressed it to Sam's throat.

"Yeah we are," she said, "Too bad, you seem nice."

He racked his brains for what to say next. Plan A had been to fight, which only got them handcuffed a mile above the earth...

"I was thinking," said Sam, breath hitching as she drew a bead of blood, "You died in that dress, didn't you?"

Plan B had been to bluff their way to safety...

"You were at a wedding when you died..." he said, the hem of her dress fluttering inches from his mouth. He leaned into the knife, never taking his eyes from hers even when the blood dripped at her feet. Dean stared, trembling as Sam pressed his lips to her belly, causing her to shudder in surprise.

Time for Plan C.

"Always a bridesmaid?" he mouthed, so only she'd hear, "Never a bride?"

Fuck 'Til Dawn.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	48. Bride of Dracula

**I'd like to thank Anne Rice for inspiring me to give all my vampires drag queen names.**

**I feel like the sex scenes between Sam and Hotsie should be separate from Dean and Peaches, since they are very different moods, so sorry if this one's short.**

* * *

><p>"This one", said Peaches, pressing a hand to Sam's shoulder until he bent over double, "He's got an itch you should see."<p>

The knife came away, and he breathed with relief, for a moment frightened that Hotsie might change her mind and kill him after all. He pressed his mouth to her ankles, her skin cold and soft. The schoolgirl's blood pooled about his knees, so that his reflection, and his alone, flashed with the lightning overhead.

Looking up thru his bangs, Sam waited for some direction, some tilt of the head, and when none came he lifted his head a little to kiss her calf, her knees locked together protectively against whatever he had to offer, and when his mouth brushed against the tops of her thighs, her eyes moved the slightest fraction.

"You can sit up." said Peaches, curious as to how far this would take him.

When he was upright again, her bridesmaid dress flared in the wind, crinoline snapping while she maintained an inhuman stillness. If the sun were to be blotted out she might be satisfied to stand vigil a thousand years in this way, but secretly he knew her insides were twisting for his touch. Leaning forward, he took the hem of her dress in his teeth, tugging at it until it masked him just below the eyes.

She'd closed herself off there as well, a girl in search of cosmic mystery who feared losing herself in the Bermuda Triangle between her legs, but he breathed hot against her until the cotton was warm. Static popped off her hair, as if the thousands of souls trapped within her were as excited as he was, and he wondered what it would be like to initiate an invisible city of girls. He'd been with some dangerous creatures, but never one with such a high body count. He thought of his time with Peaches just a few hours earlier, and blushed, wondering if she'd be just as demanding on him.

"Can I?"

Still watching her, he pressed his tongue to the hollow between her thighs, hooking it upwards on a slow drag. Her hair swirled about her in a sickly halo, and though he could not read her face she opened her legs slightly to let him in.

"It's okay."

He pressed on boldly, lapping at the fabric until it clung to her skin. She tasted like motor oil and chemicals and ozone, cars and brains and impossible ambition wrapped up in one dangerous fucking animal. He ached to take her panties in his teeth, but knew he had to be patient.

The handcuffs bit into his wrists, the steel hard under his knees, and he struggled to maintain balance. He wished she would speak, for those black eyes to acknowledge him, but they seemed to glint with a private anger, that a troubled boy like him should awaken this need in her, and it spurred him on all the more.

"Come on," said Peaches, "Don't keep her waiting."

Standing a ways apart, the cool night air slipped between her legs, chilling his sticky mouth. He took the cotton in his mouth and slowly began to pull down, unable to see whatever she had to reveal, but feeling a hint of soft hair as he slid past.

When she had stepped out of them, Peaches reached to undo his belt, freeing his already painful erection.

"Take this in your teeth," said Peaches, lifting the hem of his shirt, "And show us what we're working with."

He did as asked, his cheeks burning with wicked delight. He knew how beautiful he was, and did not hesitate to sit straight with his shirt half peeled off to expose the flat brown muscle underneath, both he and Peaches looking up and daring her to acknowledge the baseball bat of a cock pointing right at her. His breath began to come hot and fast as he waited, scared that he might not be to her taste.

"Good boy," said Peaches, grabbing his hair, "Now eat the floor."

She forced him down, his chin scraping the metal as the blow echoed below him. She knelt behind him, making herself comfortable as she reached in front of his face.

"Now spit."

He did so, her hand cupped against his mouth, and for a moment he wondered if he'd get more blood out of her tonight. He found the idea of draining her more arousing then actually touching her, and this frightened him enough that he wasn't prepared when she invaded him.

He couldn't keep himself quiet this time, her fingers hard and confident inside him, eager for him to beg. She clutched his bound wrists, working him until the tight heat around her fingers began to tremble, his cock suspended hungrily in the air, and she spared a feline smile for Dean.

"You're next."

"I'd rather stick my hand in the blender." he said thru his teeth, seething coldly.

She narrowed her eyes, taking the measure of him, and said to Hotsie, "Get down."

"Why?"

And searching Dean for any show of weakness, she said, "To fuck his face."

Hotsie knelt before him, knees wide apart so his face was level with her sex. With her hand under his chin and Peaches shoving the back of his head, they positioned him how they pleased and set him to work, his cock still ignored, his ass growing warmer as he was used harder and faster.

Dean could forgive a lot of Sam's conquests. Air-headed virgins and tentacle beasts without two brain cells to rub together didn't count as competition. But to watch these creatures take possession of him so readily, pushing him this way and that like a disobedient pet while he sat shackled and helpless, made his blood burn.

After a while, Hotsie let her head sink, melting against his eager mouth, and looked to Peaches. "Unlock him."

Removing her hand from his body, a tiny key came from somewhere and the handcuffs clicked apart. The skin was red raw around the bone, and with his face pressed to the ground he waited for his next instruction. A soft sigh of fabric and Hotsie's dress fell to one side, her bare skin flashing in the storm. She rolled onto her back, waving Peaches away, and sat up on her elbows to look at him.

"Come here."

He crawled forward, taking her into his arms when she reached for him. The wind flung his hair in his eyes, so that between the lightning and the pre-dawn gloom he could only see her blonde hair, spread out beneath her dark body like a solar eclipse. The metal would be hard on her, he thought, and so hooking his arms under her knees, he scooped her into the air, lacing his fingers as the small of her back.

Though her skin was still cold, her cunt pressed raw and wet against him, aching for his cock to force it's way in. She wrapped her arms around his neck, sliding along and slicking the length of him with slow deliberation.

"Now?" he asked, sweat beading on his forehead.

She smiled, her teeth glowing in the dark, and her eyes flicked over to Peaches. A white hand reached down between them and set his cock in place, the head pulsing hotly as it nestled impatiently against her rosebud.

"You think we should let him?"

"I dunno," said Hotsie, "I don't think he's ready yet."

And biting down on her lip, black blood welled up, spilling over her chin and onto her breasts, and it was all Sam could do not to thrust up into her and lose it right there like it was his first time.

"Kiss me."

The lightning rattled the tower as his mouth crashed into hers, his head on fire the moment the moment he tasted her, and all his reason evaporated as he drove into her. She cried out, not at the pain, for she died ages ago, but at the heat of a living man inside her, and as he hit that knot deep inside, her cunt spread wide over him as his hips slammed into hers, all the intellectual satisfaction previously derived from exploring the great vasty deeps took a flying leap for the relentless pounding fuck that was about to be hers.

Sweat coated his back, his knees quickly sore from grinding into her, but he put his discomfort aside. Nothing was quite as rewarding as when a girl surrendered and started fucking back, twisting tightly against him as if to ring out his dick, and burying his face in her neck, he let her ride it out, one eye on the skyline and wondering how long until the dawn approached.

"Wow," said Peaches appreciatively, "And after two shots earlier he won't finish soon probably."

Dean glared up at her, murder in his eyes. "When I get my hands on you..."

"Oh hon, don't you remember what I said earlier," she said, a black light dancing in her eyes, "About waiting your turn?"

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>


	49. Love Me Dead

**Two, TWO horrible vagina analogies, ah ah ah!**

**Slight AU, you don't become a vampire unless you do a blood exchange, sunlight kills them, vampire blood makes you temporarily strong and super horny, and these vampires in particular can do a soul drain, and since they've drained thousands of people it makes them nigh unkillable.**

* * *

><p>"Fuck you're hot," said Peaches, her bare toes spread wide as she crouched on Dean's chest, "I'm gettin' pregnant just lookin' at you."<p>

He lay with his legs curled under him, handcuffed with a knife at his throat and the edge of the tower a few whistling feet away, and yet he recoiled as she fingered his shirt button. She might have the shape of a girl, but her hands were unnaturally white, a cold, hard thing with a thousand souls writhing in her belly like grave worms.

"Get off." he muttered, rolling his shoulders away as she undid the top button. A breeze pushed his collar open, and he turned his head away even at this small exposure.

"What, didn't we have fun together back at my place?" she asked, working another button, "You shy now?"

"You wanna die tonight I'm happy to oblige."

"Really?" she said, "That ain't what your friend said last night."

He struggled to keep his face straight. John wouldn't have engaged directly with a creature like her, he knew the risks. _Right?_ He looked over at Sam, locked in with Hotsie, and knew he had to keep Peaches distracted if they were going to live to see the sun.

He let her open the rest of his shirt, eyes cast down as she watched him, curiosity bound to get the better of him. Her hair fell on either side of her face, strands lifting to catch his mouth as she bent toward him. With dread he realized he could not escape this.

He tried not to look over at Sam, afraid it would rouse her ire. Heat lightning lit Sam's body, naked between two slender black legs as his hips rose and fell on top of her shuddering form, curls damp against his flushed cheeks and utterly drugged on her blood.

"Yeah, your friend snuck in while I was asleep. I open my eyes and he's staring right at me." She pressed her hand against Dean's bare skin and frowned at his heartbeat. The living were so fucking _noisy_.

He tried to read her, for a pause in the sentence or a shift in her eyes, but either she had a talent for lies or had nothing to hide. His stomach knotted at her implications of John's behavior.

"He wouldn't touch a shameless bitch like you." he said, his lip curling.

"Oh honey," she said, eyelids lowering, "He couldn't _stop_ fucking me."

The hope drained out of him as a slow smile spread across her mouth. John had been his last ditch hero on this awful job, and nobody walked away from a waking vampire without taking damage. For all he knew John was dead and fast turning into squirrel food, but he pushed that away.

_She's lying_, he told himself. But the idea grew in his mind unbidden, of John stalking his prey, gun slung over his bare back and face half-lit in the faltering twilight, and Dean had to admit that if he were alone and should uncover a creature as lovely as she in a citadel of the dead, he would not hesitate to give her the royal fucking she deserved.

She held his face between thumb and forefinger, turning him this way and that to examine his mouth. He wondered if she had done the same upon first meeting John, and found himself growing hard at the thought.

On the floor opposite them, the schoolgirl curled up on the floor and watched them with a calm fascination, her body drifting between here and eternity while her soul watched helplessly from behind Peaches' eyes.

"Do know what it's like to get fucked by a man you know you'll never see again?" she asked.

"Can't say." He kept his voice even, eyeing the shadow between her breasts, her shoulders rounded and soft.

"If I remade you," she started slowly, "We could leave. We could take to the sky and leave this toilet behind."

"I dunno babe," he said, "I heard it's cold in space."

She leaned in dangerously, her eyes fathomless. "You think I ain't cold now?"

She sniffed, plucking his knife off the floor. "Ya know what I miss?"

With a blade suddenly dangling over his left eye, the rest of the world seemed very far away. "What?"

"Having the time to spend on one person." she said. Her mouth was close, red and thick-lipped, but no breath warmed his face. "Don't get me wrong, the last few weeks have been great, but these guys are in such a hurry with their rocketship and I don't get the opportunities like I used to."

Dean tried to look bored, head loose on his shoulders like this was the biggest waste of time, but his eyes were bright and intent.

"Real suffering has to settle in your bones," she said, rocking back and forth as if watching him in this uncomfortable position make her antsy, "Til you lose your mind and start thinking your whole life you've been in pain."

"I was so lucky, my first kill? I spent two months hanging out with her before I did anything. Crystal had gotten me a job at the drugstore, stocking hair dye and nail polish and shit? She was fun, she knew how to make fake IDs so we could see R-rated movies after work."

"Why two months?" asked Dean carefully.

"Halloween. It was her favorite day of the year, the guys would laugh at her cuz she wore these orange and black stripey socks all the time," she said, smiling at the memory, "Boy was _she_ surprised."

"It's tricky, keepin' somebody in an unmarked van for a weekend. It's like baking a pie, you put all your ingrediants in the pan, stick it in the oven, and..." she said, opening her hand, "You hope for the best."

_I kinda wanna marry you right now_. he thought, and slapped it away. His dick had been sniffing her ass for the last few minutes, and it knew too well that crazy chicks were hellcats in bed.

"Most girls are just fucking boring, but she, she was _angry_. Even tied up with half her teeth knocked out, she would come at me every time I opened the door, knocking her head on the window and sayin' what she'd do once she got free. She scared me," she said, her eyes large and somewhere else, "I killed the coolest chick in town."

He snorted, breaking her reverie. "What?" she asked.

He stared at her, thoroughly unsettled by her confession. "Am I supposed to feel sorry for you now?

She flinched. Dean's words rankled within her. _I'd rather stick my hand in a blender. _Lowering her hand, she undid his belt with a vicious snap, her forwardness bringing a blush to his face.

"You think you're too good for me?" she whispered, spreading her fingers over the schoolgirl's body to bloody her hand, "That I'm stupid? Unworldly?"

She reached inside his jeans, warm and slick against his skin.

"I am too good for _you_," she said, fingers curling around his aching cock, and a noise escaped him, "I can hear the hair growing on your head, the blood buzzing under your skin like fucking ants, and it is _disgusting_."

He knocked his head against the floor, struggling to kill his erection for this vile creature.

"Well good," he rasped, burning up inside, "Cuz I'd rather die then stick my dick in you."

"Say that again." she said, working him viciously now. Vampires aren't used to being jilted. "I'll teach you to suffer."

He turned his head to one side, unable to move away from her as she worked him with practiced ease. He had to regain control somehow...

"Ya know I had a lot of fun back at my place, me and you," she said, "If you stayed..."

"What's the point?" he said, though his dick jumped at the idea of spending eternity with such fuckable quarry, "It's not the same as a hunt."

She stopped. "How's that?"

He bit his lip as slick leaked over her fingers. "You're not scared of me."

She laid the knife down, daring him. "Try."

She reached behind her without breaking the stare, the blender at his side now, still wet from the schoolgirl. _Fuck she really took me seriously when I said that_, he thought.

"You can start slow," she said, unlocking his handcuffs and bringing his right fist around front, "Sun won't be up for a while."

He breathed steadily. Now that he was calling the shots, as crazy as this was about to get, he found he could think clearly. _She wants to be scared, she'll get it, _he thought,_ Just til the sun comes up._

He took her hand and lay it gently against the front, plastic buttons running a spectrum from white to red. He took a deep breath. "Get it started for me."

_No fear._ he thought and he rubbed his wrists. Better to show creatures like her that the pain didn't matter.

There was a moment when he regarded her, one dainty finger on the switch as the blades began to whir in the night air, wondering if he could give up now and save himself a lot of agony. There are worse fates then being a vampire's slampiece.

John's face swam before him, and he exhaled. Sometimes he wondered at his own hierarchy of unforgivable sins.

And pulling her in for a kiss, he lowered his fist into the blender.

Blood sprayed up his sleeve, and it wasn't two seconds but he wrenched his arm away and grabbed it with his other hand. "Aaaaah!" Clenching his teeth, he bit back a childish whimper as Peaches tapped the machine on it's side to empty the contents. There was surprisingly little.

"That didn't take long." she said, disappointed.

He didn't dare look down at his hand, something was broken. "It's too slow," he said thickly, reaching over with his good hand to move her finger to a higher setting, "Wanna get a clean cut."

Her hand felt impossibly heavy now as he guided her, her fingertip molding against the plastic groove as she waited for him. An evil glitter danced in her eyes, excited as he swallowed the pain and nodded slightly.

"Okay go."

The second time is always harder when you know what's in store, and his whole body arched off the ground as he tried to keep his hand in longer. When he finally pulled out he couldn't even lift his arm. It seemed to belong to someone else.

"That all you got?" she asked breathlessly, her breasts pressing against him. The chain lay between them against her sex, and she began rocking against it, her desire growing as blood pooled around them.

He swallowed, white-faced and shivering as he peered up at her. It was getting hard to stay awake.

"You can do it, one last show," she said, bending close til she was length-wise on top of him, "And then I want you inside me."

Her lips did not touch, but he felt disconnected, drawing away from himself little by little, as if someone had pulled the bath plug. He closed his eyes and melted into her, the machine sucking hungrily at him as he went in for the last time.

The world spasmed and...

* * *

><p>...he opened his eyes under a different sky.<p>

"Hello?" he asked, his voice muffled as if he had his hands over his ears. All around him was concrete jungle, high-rises and subterranean subway entrances built thickly together, and full of air that had never been breathed. He tried to read a sign overhead.

"What's that, Russian?" he muttered, unable to make sense of it.

ᗡИUOЯGЯƎᗡИU

He could still hear the blender, but it was at some distance, maybe a block away. Something itched at his coat pocket, and he looked down at a piece of paper, fluttering lightly against his heart like a sleeping bird.

"The hell...?" he said, as a photograph of Sam slipped loose and flew toward the noise on instinct. He stepped forward to snatch at it, but it slid away as if pulled by an invisible thread.

"No no no come back here." he said, a dull ache in his gut as he stumbled after the picture, suddenly scared that it was leading him somewhere very bad indeed.

Polished office towers converged on an abandoned four story building, gap-tooth windows and the doorways walled off with cheap concrete so that the foundation melted into the sidewalk. The blender echoed within, and Sammy's photograph followed it's siren hum.

"Sammy!" he yelled as it flew through a broken window pane. Peering inside and seeing nothing, he jammed his elbow into the remaining glass, numb to the pain as he cut himself climbing in. The last occupants had smashed holes in the walls, so that moonlight streamed into the central hallway connecting the rooms.

The grinding blades grew louder as he turned the corner into the corridor, a pair of elevators doors at the end that stood partway propped open. Sammy's picture lay a few feet from it, drawing ever closer, and in a panic Dean began to sprint.

"Come...back here." he said, as it wedged it's way thru the narrow entrance, and with a desperate leap he thrust his arm thru the doors and felt around blindly as it fluttered in the dark.

Feeling it crumpled in his fist, eerily warm against his skin, he closed his eyes in relief. He was about to draw his arm back out when something shifted below, and a hand reached from within and clamped around his wrist.

He lurched forward, head slamming into steel. "Fucking let go!" It was too dark to see who was inside the elevator shaft, but the fingers were cold and delicate as nails bit into him. Setting both boots against the doors, he straightened his legs and pulled away til the thing on the other side dug bloody grooves into him.

"You're not...getting...him." he said thru his teeth, and with a final kick he landed on the carpet, the hand with the picture resting protectively against him, and he scrambled to his feet. The blender had stopped.

He stood quietly for a moment, catching his breath and wondering for the first time where the hell he was. _The United States of Peaches?_ he thought. He looked down at the picture, and his eyes stung.

He couldn't tell when it was taken, he must've seen it a million times in a million places. Sam in the passenger seat of a car, profiled against the sun, bored and unhappy.

"Sammmy..." he whispered, tracing his thumb along the bottom. He wanted to go back to the waking world and find that boy so badly now. He began wondering what the hell was he supposed to do next when a low rumble shook the elevator.

_The fuck is that, old water pipes?_ he thought. There it was again, longer and rising in the middle. How many monsters did Peaches keep in her head anyway?

_Not about to find out_. he thought, as he turned on his heel to leave. Sidestepping cinderblock and overturned office furniture, he pelted toward the exit, halfway out the window when he heard something scratch at the elevator doors. Metal protested and bent outward.

_Not good not good not good._ he thought, boots on the pavement and looking both ways down the empty intersection. He'd recognized that sound, a vague memory from his early game hunting days resurfacing.

"I'll have to ask her when I come back up." he said, flattening the photo out in his hand. He wasn't sure this would work, but Sammy was the only thing worth taking from him. It was his Get Out of Hell Free card.

_There's no place like home._ he thought, pressing it between his hands until it began to burn. And though the beast was very close now, black, dripping snout pressed against the window and reaching for the back of his head, his heart kickstarted and...

* * *

><p>...his whole right arm was electrified.<p>

"Hey there Sunshine Bear." he croaked.

"How did you do that?" asked Peaches angrily, white hands pinning his shoulders. He felt her pulling on him again, but she was weakened by the effort and could not drain him a second time.

"I dunno..." he said, too scared to look down at his hand.

She calculated how long he'd bled out, and didn't want to lose her new chewtoy so soon. "You're dying," she said, slashing the palm of her hand, "You only need a little bit."

He smiled, his teeth a red horror. "I don't drink outta whores."

Anger flashed briefly across her face, but she curled her arms around him, almost tenderly. "Who says you have to drink it?"

All the air rushed out of him as she crushed his body, her hands burrowing thru his sides and under his ribcage, where her blood swept through him like bubbles in a glass of champagne. Lightning flashed against a familiar tableau in reverse, the bewitching maiden bent over to ravish the hunter fainting in her arms.

His right hand felt warm and when Dean looked down it was restored, down to the nail.

"What the hell did you do to him?" Sam shouted, lifting Peaches off of him and peering into Dean's face, "Are you okay?"

Dean had no words. Though Sam was still blood-drunk, his voice was the realest thing on that tower at that moment. The hellish elevator loomed large in Dean's mind, and grabbing Sam he pulled him down and pressed his mouth to his. "I know..." he whispered, shaping the words against his ear, "I know where they buried the other vampire."

Sam blinked. "But how...?"

"Later," he whispered, his eyes burning with a new desire as the blood took effect, "Where's Hotsie?"

A smile flitted across his face. "Not going anywhere."

"Then you can help me with this." he said, wrenching Peaches' arm. He was stronger now and she fell into his lap easily.

She looked from boy to boy, both watching her with frank curiosity. "What are you doing?" she asked quietly, as they exchanged looks and she was pushed into Sam's arms.

She snarled, hair whipping in his face as he held her upright, her back to him and both seated on the floor. She was so focused on getting away from him that she didn't look down in time to see Dean grabbing her knees.

"Hey stop that!" she said, as he raised the cotton dress over the tops of her thighs. Blood always made for docile boyfriends, why wasn't he listening to her?

She caught his eyes, and for the first time in a long time she was _scared_. The only boy to survive a soul drain, teamed up with the jealous boyfriend she'd unceremoniously fingerbanged for the last few hours. And now he had a hand up her skirt, high on Dracula Viagra.

_Fuck_.

Sam set his teeth on the back of her neck, hand twisting the front of her dress, heart racing as he watched Dean run his hands along the inside of her legs. A dark question shone on his face as he looked down, her sex hidden in shadow. _John wouldn't have, would he?_

But that could wait. At some unspoken sign, both boys moved to take something nearby, and with the skill of men who'd chained far more dangerous creatures, they fixed the handcuffs to her limbs. With her wrists now down by her ankles, she would be slow in a fight.

Her arms bent behind, bare shoulders white atop her flower print dress. Their faces loomed close as she knelt, Sam still hot and wet from his last girl, Dean tacky with blood with a mean humor in his eyes. One for love, one for death. Either way...

She turned her head away with an insolent twist of her lips, shivering as they buried their mouths in her neck. _I must be very quiet_, she thought, _I won't give them the satisfaction._

But Sam was familiar with undead vanity, and hooked a finger into the top of her dress.

"This is so weird." Dean muttered drunkenly, forehead resting against her collarbone as her blood buzzed thru his brain.

"Ssshh, follow me." said Sam, and he pulled the cotton down beneath her breasts so they rested on a shelf, fat and ripe and pale as apple flesh. They looked up at her, her brow furrowed in apprehension as the boys breathed hot on her.

Their arms enclosed her, drawing her in until she yielded to their touch, her whole body heating up as her breasts were devoured, and without much resistance she let Dean kick her legs apart.

"You lie a good game honey." he said, half contempt and half admiration as he sank a finger into her. Either she'd never had a man, or undeath had taken her young and each night regenerated her innocence. But he had to know if John had strayed...

"Keep her busy." he said.

Sam lifted her chin to kiss her, but she glared furiously, hair sweeping over her eyes. "He doesn't wanna party," she said, "He just wants to see if a better man got there first."

His eyes narrowed, wondering who she meant by that. "I'd take it easy if I were you."

"Oh yeah smartass?" she said, when suddenly her lips parted and she had a hard time focusing.

"He's done this before," he said, holding her as she went boneless in his arms, "You're gonna need this."

She turned her face, not looking anywhere. "Why?"

His voice was low, like the murmur of leaves. "Cuz when he's done...I'm gonna ruin you."

Down below, Dean began a swift and rough examination between her legs. Cold at first, her sex soon warmed to his tongue, and he lapped at her for any evidence of recent lovers. John was distinct, though for all he knew all old soldiers tasted bitter, and he drove his tongue into her until she made a little noise, fingers bracing her as she raised her hips to meet him.

So she had lied. He knew, he _knew_ John would never lower himself like that, and this happy affirmation made him draw closer, until his face pressed so close he couldn't breathe and her thighs crushed the sides of his head. If John could be chaste, then so could he.

He left a hand on the back of his neck, and he looked up at Sam. "She's ready."

Dean stopped, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Come here."

He took his face in both hands, kissing him, so disconnected from the real world. She watched them feverishly, eager to begin.

The chain linking the boys was now between her legs, and wrapping it in his fist Dean drew it tight across her belly, so the steel links ran hard against her cunt. A ripple ran thru her as she slid across it, slow at first and then swiveling in his embrace to gain greater friction.

He watched as Sam sat before her, searching her face for any lingering doubt. He lay a hand against her cheek, always the respectful one. In another life, where teenagers get away with murder every day, she might have taken up their line of work.

"I hate you." she whispered, as Dean knelt behind her, clutching her knees and spreading her wide for the other boy.

He pressed his mouth to her hair, sparing her a secret smile. "I hate you too."

Sam sank into her with a light, lazy push, one slow inch at a time, until he disappeared and their bones ground against each other. Her eyes glowed as she kept them on Dean's, the haunted city within her finally getting a taste of summer. He pulled back, tortuously slow, and filled her again. She breathed open-mouthed, her nipples red and wet as she was stretched to suit him.

"No," she whispered, when Dean reached down for the knot above her cunt, "That's not what I need."

His breath quickened, was she serious? _One girl's clit is another's Puree setting._ he thought. "I dunno..."

"Just get it," she hissed, the grit back in her voice, "It's right there."

He looked over. Sure enough, the blender was within reach. Unscrewing the glass jar, he laid on it's side, the blades glinting expectantly in the moonlight. _Maybe she'll change her mind_. he thought.

"Oh don't be a fucking pussy," she said, "Do it, just fucking do it, right in the heart."

"I can't." he said, and Sam looked up at this.

"What does she want?"

"Oh...Sam..." she whispered, very close now. She'd gotten herself off before, but never with a boy, and she grew delirious, wild as he pumped into her, and she wished the end were not so close, that the sun might wait forever and he would never stop fucking her.

"Dean," she begged, her eyes shining, "Kill me."

He swallowed. She was a loathsome thing, but he didn't have the strength.

With a cry of frustration, the handcuffs snapped from her ankles, and she reached up to sides of her head. "Sam...don't stop...please..."

Dean pulled away, til she was flat on the floor and Sam was leveraged inside of her, knocking against that sweet spot with powerful, punishing strokes as she rocked against his thick cock, buried deep as if to take root within her.

"That's it...that's it...eeeeh..." she moaned, as bones began to splinter in her neck.

_How is she doing that?_ Dean thought in horror. He covered his mouth with both hands, unable to look away as her neck stretched.

Sam kept on. This was all according to plan. It would not kill her, the sun would be up any minute now, and they could get away from here.

She'd never known such happiness, the husbands she'd never had. And if she could claim one with honey, she thought while gazing at Dean, knowing they'd meet again...

_I'll mark the other with blood_, she thought.

And with a final wrench, her head sprung free, a red hydrant pouring over Dean's boots.

"Oh fuck..." Dean whispered, his voice unnaturally high, "Oh Sammy, stop, Sammy please you gotta stop..."

Her head fell from her hands, rolling over and over, until the boys watched it pause at the edge, and then topple over into the night.

"Fuck's sake, pull out." said Dean, grabbing Sam's shoulder.

"She's not dead." he assured him, leaning over for his bluejeans. While the vampire blood heightened Dean's anxiety, it only seemed to channel Sam's natural reserve around his fuckmates.

"How the _fuck_ can you say that?" asked Dean, and then stopped. Totsie the comatose vampire had stood up from her chair, and regarded them for the first time all evening, her face unreadable.

"You got somethin' to say?" Dean snapped, thinking this job could not _get_ more fucked up.

She smiled, and pointed over his shoulder. He whirled around, and stood face to face with Peaches, her severed head floating in mid-air, levitating on pure bitch power. She opened her mouth, and though no words came out, to Dean's fevered brain he could hear the blades droning inside like a mechanical whirlwind. It sounded like the end of the world.

His scream split the air, and clutching Sam's arm, he unwisely took a step back, and fell on empty air. Scrabbling for purchase, the chain jerked Sam straight into his arms, and they pitched backwards.

"Grab the rail!" he shouted.

"What?!"

"The rail, the-" but the wind was deafening and he couldn't catch his breath. The pavement rushed toward them as they clung to one another, and in his final moments Dean swore, _swore_, he heard the beast from the elevator, waiting for him on the earth below...

And then an iron fist grabbed his shirt. Sam's body dislocated something as he swung against him, and they were slung onto the winding staircase like a sack of potatoes, Sam crashing on top of him a second later.

"Please don't kill us, we're alive..." Dean babbled, as a gun pressed into his face, "We were sent here by the Senator."

"I know," said John, propping his shotgun over his shoulder, his face glowing as the sun rose gloriously in the east, "So was I."


	50. Blood Bath

**slight AU, a vampire and it's victim have to exchange blood for the change to occur. Also vampire blood accelerates healing and provides a strength bonus, but gives you the shakes once you stop drinking it. Sam drank some, while Dean had it forcefully injected into him by another vampire.**

**Summary: The Boys are chained together. Atlanta is overrun with vampires and zombies, and when the Boys were forced to take the job, the Feds arresting them were so scared of the monsters that they didn't bother to wait and sever the six foot chain binding them together at the waist. Harold is a gay navy SEAL from previous chapters.**

**The song Dean sings is "Drunken-Hearted Boy" by the Allman Brothers**

* * *

><p>John had set up base camp in a switching station, his shipping container neatly arranged with rations on a work table and guns hanging from the ceiling. At the far end, maps wallpapered three sides, with two mattresses constituting bedroom, war room, and, judging by the stains, hospital. Sam knelt on the hard floor with his head bowed, his wrists zip-tied at John's word, and began to sweat.<p>

Dean's eyes flicked around the corners of the room. A garbage bag of bloody fatigues lay under a chair, and over that was the flophouse smell of two men working long nights in an unventilated space. John had not come alone.

A lantern burned nearby, drawing hard edges around the old man's arms as he crossed them over his chest.

"What happened?"

Dean swallowed. John was half out of uniform, jacket draped over the shoulders, thin cotton shirt, with a gun on each hip and camo pants stretched over the most beautiful mouth-filling cock, and Dean wondered why he had never, until now, thought of this fantasy.

"Ran into a vampire nest, sir," he managed, "Two separate locations actually, miles apart."

John gave them a distant look, as if listening for some silent frequency of deceit between the boys.

"Was there a blood exchange?"

"No, sir," said Dean with certainty, "They weren't interested."

"Hmmm..." He extended his hand to a cabinet, the label holders blank. Smugglers always scratched the serial numbers off their sales, but as John drew a line in the air from one drawer to the other, Dean silently rattled of the contents, and squeezed Sam's shoulder in apprehension.

"Hold him for me."

"What's he...what's he gonna do Dean?" Sam mumbled, half out of his mind from blood detox.

"It's nothin'," Dean assured him quietly, though he had no idea, "Just keep still."

Sam looked up, and drew in whimpering when he saw John pointing a flashlight at him. "The hell is that?!"

Dean drew up short. He still had blood in his system, but never drank it, would _he_ pass whatever test John was about to administer?

"Open." said John, lifting Sam's head by his hair, the poor kid's eyes rolling up at Dean for some explanation.

It took a second, but when the beam of pure UV light shined into Sam's mouth he let out an inhuman shriek, seismic tremors splitting the concrete underneath, and for a second the whole car was a blur. Unspeakable gurgling noises filled the room as smoke poured out of his mouth, his spine twisting at an unnatural angle while Dean stood by, too terrified to knock John's hand aside.

"Alright," said John, releasing Sam, "Your turn."

Sam let his cheek rest atop Dean's boot, curled in a boneless heap like ticker tape, while John placed his thumb and forefinger on the older boy's jaw.

"I didn't drink any, sir." he whispered plaintively, scared and yet half-hard at the man's touch.

Dean did not wait for the order. Opening his mouth obediently, he held his breath and waited for the inspection, for whatever pain he took now would be nothing compared to the ass-kicking he'd receive should John suspect him of vampire shenanigans.

John counted to himself, until Dean stood so straight his toes pointed into the floor, and he lowered the flashlight with some satisfaction. He knew the boys had left something out of their story, but he was on a schedule, and couldn't afford to punish them now.

"Keep Sam outside for a few hours," he said, switching the light off, "Daylight'll get it out of his system as good as anything else."

"Yes, sir," said Dean hurriedly, reaching across the table for a water bottle, "I won't take him far."

"And go armed," said John, placing a gentle hand on his wrist, "We might get separated and there's no good way to communicate out here."

Dean hesitated, following the muscled lines of John's arm with slow eyes.

"Here," said John, taking a rifle off it's hook, "I'll load one up."

"I can do it." he said, snatching it up and averting his eyes to the nearest box of shells.

John mistook his nerves for stubborn pride, and half-smiled. "You did good out there," he said, "Walked away without a mark on you."

Dean said nothing, counting out the shells for the magazine.

"We'll catch some sleep now," he said, detailing the plan, "At midnight we'll bomb the penitentiary."

"The one full of zombies?"

"Zombies can track vampires."

"Even so, we got enough bullets for all the zombies left over?"

"Let me worry about firepower. We let them loose tonight, and once they've killed off our primary targets, provided we stay in a high position..." said John, watching the boy work with a cold glitter in one eye, "We can take them at our leisure."

Dean did not like this plan. He knew _exactly_ where the last vampire was hidden, figured he could save everybody a lot of hassle if he zipped down and beheaded her himself, but wasn't sure he could explain this new knowledge while skipping over the vampire _menage a trois_.

"Yes, sir." he said. His hand trembled slightly, and the last shell slipped across the table.

"Oo watch it there." said John, plucking it from the air before it fell. He was about to give it back when he smiled, all his teeth showing for once.

"What?"

John looked up, years taken off his face. "Wanna see a trick?"

Dean tilted his head to one side. John didn't even tell _jokes_, much less perform tricks for people, but he watched with growing curiosity as John showed him the shell in one hand, then passed it to the other, lifting it this way and that in the light, until...

"Holy shit!" said Dean, clapping a hand over his mouth, "Sorry, sir, didn't mean to-"

"It's okay." said John, happy for such a response.

"It's just...it's gone, _how did you do that_?"

"Learned it years ago, it's not hard."

Dean laughed, a sharp bright bark that John had nearly forgotten. Sam lay a few feet away, dozing dreamlessly, and secretly John had hoped Dean would be his partner on this job. He raised his hand to the boy's face, drawing in faster then Dean could suck in his next breath.

"John...?"

It was quick, a hot press to the mouth, but not a day went by that John hadn't thought about risking it, and Dean's cock jumped up in a patriotic salute. _Sir yes sir, reporting for duty to have my brains fucked out, sir, _while his teeth sank into John's lower lip in a silent _yes_. There would be time later.

They broke apart. John was still very close. "Yeah?"

"Definitely." Dean replied, not thinking. And turning away before he did anything else stupid, he shook Sam awake and walked them both out of the train car, slinging the rifle across his back before the door slammed shut.

Sam was barely conscious, though when Dean reached for his knife to cut the zip-ties, he found that Sam had already slipped loose from them, keeping his wrists in the same position the entire time to avoid suspicion. _What else was Sam awake for?_ Dean wondered.

The switching station was a massive maze, an ant hill cross section laid on it's side, and it took no time at all to find a private car. Leading Sam forward by the neck, Dean stopped to toss the water bottle on top of an especially clean one, before dropping to one knee to gather up Sam over his shoulder.

"Hey, whatchu got under your shirt?"

Sam blinked sleepily, a plastic bag crinkling as they climbed up the metal ladder.

Dean smiled. "Well whatever you stole, you better let me use it for a pillow cuz I am _wiped_."

The chain between them didn't offer much privacy, but Dean laid him in the center of the roof and walked away to swing his legs over the far end. He took in the city skyline, the stolen kiss igniting his imagination with the possibilities of what John had planned for him.

_And John doesn't know about the blood Peaches gave me_, he thought gleefully. He'd _never_ managed to pull one over the old man, and assuming he managed to avoid fucking up the job tonight...An old Georgia song sprung to mind, and he sang thru his teeth.

_"Well, yes, people I am a poor, drunken hearted boy..._

_Well, yeah, people I am a poor, drunken hearted boy..."_

Opening one eye, Sam checked that Dean's attention was elsewhere, and slipped the bag free. Pulling his shirt off one-handed, he folded it carefully and set it to one side. The bag knot was sticky, and it was easier to tear a hole and slip his hand inside.

_"I have a whole ocean of trouble..."_

The blood inside was still fresh, too dark to be human. Presumably whoever John had partnered with had risked a fight with Peaches earlier and ditched his clothes to take a bath somewhere.

_"And just a little, half pint of joy."_ sang Dean, turning to head to see what the noise was, and stopped with his mouth half-open.

Sam knelt, his right hand dripping red as he painted a wide stripe across the back of his neck, head hung in relief. From where Dean sat, the trains and the sky intersected at Sam's throat, the only color against that steel mosaic like a jewel set into a guitar.

"What are you doing?"

Sam looked over his shoulder. "It helps," he said, reaching inside the bag for another fix, "You want some? You gotta be hurting."

Dean shook his head, not wanting to admit how..._thirsty_ he'd been all morning. With helpless fascination, he watched Sam pull out a shirt, gathering up the sloppy mess in his hands. A chill wind ruffled his hair, and lifting it high above his head suddenly, wrung both ends so that blood poured down his body in light, hot licks.

"Sammy, you gotta stop that..." Dean said unhappily, as blood slid down the curve of Sam's back. The train was old and tilted slightly, so that Dean did not realize the bag was leaking until he looked down and saw a thin red trail approaching his hand.

_I shouldn't touch it_, he thought, _John will know._

Sam wasn't listening, he was tuned into Radio Blood Junkie and everything else was static. The vampires had been a disappointment, they hadn't even _tried_ to drink his blood. So when he turned to look at Dean, the way the older boy leaned close enough to smell the blood baking on the train roof, Sam _blushed_.

"Are you...thirsty?"

Dean turned his head, teeth clenched. Sam was giving him the fuck eyes now, and if he didn't keep his distance he'd probably lick the boy clean.

"I'm not gonna drink it Sammy."

"I don't want you to."

Sam set the bloody shirt aside, locking eyes with Dean to make sure he was watching. "I've got something better." he said, pressing both hands to his throat until his jaw was patterned with red fingerprints, looking utterly savage.

"Let's get outta here, 'kay?" Dean said, staring at the gravel. It was usually Sam's job to suggest bad ideas, and he lied poorly. "I know where the last vampire is sleeping."

It was only a partial lie, he knew exactly which _building_ the vampire was in, he just didn't know where it was in the _city_. His hope was that they could motor around downtown til Sam fell asleep, lulled by the motion and the warmth of Dean's shoulder.

"There's a motorcycle parked nearby," he continued, as Sam wound his hand in the chain between them, "We could knock over the nest while there's daylight, get back toot sweet, and if John asks I'll tell him we broke into a liquor store."

Sam was stronger then he looked. Dean tried holding onto the edge, but he was so tired and his hands were sweaty, and he let himself be dragged across the roof, his ass sweeping a clean path in the dust.

"I don't want whiskey."

Sam pulled on the chain, drawing Dean in, and twisting his fingers in Dean's hair he dragged his mouth up the front of his lean body until their mouths met. Dean tried to resist, but by the time Sam got his arms around, holding him, kissing him, forcing his lips open to steal the air from his lungs, he was panting in his embrace.

"Baby boy," he said, pulling back, "I'm sorry but this is _weird_."

Sam's eyes glittered, Dean's shirt balled up in his bony fists. "No it's not. I just-"

"_What_?"

Sam wasn't sure how to put it into words, and looking up thru his bangs he said in a small voice, "I just want...an exchange."

And to demonstrate, he pulled Dean in. His face was soft this close up, and without breaking the stare, he pressed his mouth to Dean's bare collarbone, producing a hiss of surprise as he marked the skin.

"See?"

Comprehension dawned on Dean. _ The vampires didn't cut it._ Dean thought with a fierce sort of pride, as Sam unhooked his belt and pushed Dean's reluctant fingers inside his jeans.

"Please?" Sam pleaded, hanging off of Dean's neck as if he were a tree branch. Dean's fingers were slick with blood, and they didn't have to travel long before they slid past Sam's cock down into the dark.

"That's it." Sam hissed, his eyes half-lidded as his body was opened. He didn't wait five seconds but his own hand went down to fist his cock, already painfully swollen, and Dean would have been a liar if he didn't admit how hot it was to watch Sam touching himself while thinking about Dean fucking him, and his own cock threatened to break the zipper.

"I need more."

Dean removed his hand to lay them down, a smile toying at his lips as he undid his belt. Sam pulled him close until their foreheads rested together, breathing into his open mouth as Dean took both their cocks in his hand and worked them slow, both long and hard as police truncheons.

"Fuckin' _brat_," he said playfully, shoving Sam's bluejeans down until they dangled off one ankle, "You _wanna_ be turned?"

Sam grabbed his face possessively. Neither of them were entirely human that day, and he wanted to savor it. "You could fuck me and turn me and turn your face to the highway never to be seen again, and if I lived a thousand years," he whispered, "Your love would keep me waiting."

"That's right," he said, hooking his arm under Sam's knee and pinning him with his weight, "Cuz ain't no monster can fuck like a hillbilly."

Sam threw his head back as he was taken, his hair yanked to one side as Dean grabbed a fistful to expose his throat.

"Like this?"

"Fuck me Dean," he said, lifting his hips, his cock pressed bare and sticky against Dean's belly, "Fuckin' do it already..."

Holding onto Sam with one leg tucked under his arm and a hand in his hair, Dean buried his face in Sam's neck. It took no effort to break the skin, to close his eyes and suck at Sam's pulse as the boy rasped out something that might have been his name. From a bird's eye bird, hips snapping into Sam's naked body so hard the sound echoed across the train yard, Dean appeared to be fucking the blood right out of him.

"...harder." he whispered, twisting underneath. Blood pooled around his head, his fingers curling into Dean's back as a bead of clear slick leaked out of him.

Dean pivoted for that extra inch, which in retrospect was a bad idea because when Sam responded, so inhumanly strong was he, so incapable of restraint, his slender tight ass would have caved in a stronger man, and Dean reeled in cockbound agony.

"Don't stop..."

He would have pulled out, but he ground thru the pain, punching into Sam as he wailed to a finish, for Dean Winchester was the universal standard by which all other fucks were measured, and let technique carry him thru until Sam was a boneless heap. By the time he lets himself come he was _gone_, buried in the unendurable delight of Sam's body, and when Sam clutched the back of his head for him to bite harder, he felt bones crack like twigs wrapped in wet cloth.

"Sammy?" Dean panted, looking up. Blood dribbled down his chin, and Sam was very still.

"Fuck." he said, reaching over for the bag, which had only the dregs remaining. He tipped it into Sam's slack mouth and slid a thumb down his throat to make him swallow, and waiting long enough to watch the wounds seal shut, he draped his jacket over the boy, shouldered his rifle, and climbed down the side of the train to be sick. Some days he felt he should get a fucking medal for the kinks he put up with.

"Where I'd put that water..." he muttered, spitting onto the gravel with one hand propped against the rail car. He was about to wash up when he heard someone hold their breath, and he wheeled around with the gun barrel two inches from the man's face.

"Whoa! Friend!" he said, hands in the air, "John sent me to find you guys, make sure you hadn't wondered off."

Dean's blood froze, not lowering his gun. Their last meeting had ended with Dean pistol-whipped with a boot against his skull, and _fuck_ of all the partners John could have chosen, he had to go with six feet of beefcake Boy Scout pluck, straight off a Captain America lunchbox-

"_Harold_?"

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	51. No Secrets Between Sailors

**Summary so far: An extremely dangerous vampire is hiding in downtown Atlanta, which has been evacuated after a recent zombie outbreak. All of the zombies are now imprisoned in the local penitentiary, and since John has no idea where the vampire's lair is, his plan is to release the zombies, let _them_ scour the city and kill the vampire, and then shoot all the zombies afterwards. John has set up base camp in a train switching station.**

**Sam and Dean are still chained together.**

**Dean knows where the vampire is, but has no way of proving the information to John.**

**Harold is a smoking hot young Navy Seal from previous chapters (where he kicked Dean's ass in a fight and later got nailed by Sam when Sam was feeling the itch for monster sex and felt that Harold was a safer, if boring, alternative), and became a last minute recruit when John assumed Dean would not be hunting in Atlanta with him.**

* * *

><p>"With zombies," said John, reloading the lever action without lowering it from his shoulder, "You gotta keep the element of surprise."<p>

The boys trained their eyes down the rail line to a rat scuttling in the heat distortion five hundred yards away. It exploded in a red spray, the sound of impact hitting them a second later, and Harold leaned close to Dean's ear.

"John is _so cool_." he whispered excitedly, and all but clicked his heels when John extended the rifle for Harold to try next.

Harold and John chatted easily while everybody packed their guns in the supply car later that day, seated on crates of ammunition and cracking wise about their mutual tours. Despite his youth Harold was built for melee, top-heavy, steely-eyed, with a cleft chin face meant to be underlit by the strobe of machine gun fire. He was an excellent fit for John, and all the hearty back-slapping made Dean pout so hard the frown lines bit into his chin.

John put his hand out to Sam. "Pass me the magazine."

Sam leaned across the table, accidentally brushing against Harold who snapped to attention. Dean's eyes slid sideways at this, but said nothing for the moment.

"Here I got it," said Harold, taking it from Sam and looking down at his weapon of choice, "You sure you wanna take the M27?"

"Yes." said Sam, not looking up as he snapped pieces into place.

"Kinda light fare," said Harold, pulling out a rifle as thick as a caveman club, "You'll have a much easier time with this thing."

Sam turned his head. "I prefer the smaller one," said Sam, thumbing the ring on his right hand, "It's got a nice _kick_."

He left his mouth hanging open on the last word, daring Harold to speak further, but he blushed under Sam's gaze and gave the floor a half-smile.

Dean's eyes widened at this little exchange, staring at Sam until he turned back to his work, but Sam pretended not to notice. John stood up to stretch and look at his watch.

"Time we got some sleep," he said, "Harold, run out and check the north gate, I'll circle the south and meet you midway. You boys wrap up, lights out in thirty."

Harold nodded, shouldering his gun and stepping out, while Dean fidgeted until John shut the door behind him. His clothes didn't seem to fit right, the cheap denim jeans itching even when he sat still. The second the door shut, he rounded on Sam.

"What the hell was that?"

Sam stared at his gun, thumbing a round into the chamber. "It was back at the Senator's, while you were in jail."

"Wait, what did you do?" asked Dean heatedly, "I was only in for a few hours, what could have _possibly_ happened in that time?"

"The creature was loose," said Sam, snapping the magazine into place, "Harold didn't believe me, and almost got me killed."

Blood rushed to Dean's face. He'd spent all morning with an unbidden porno stuck on repeat in his head, of all the things John and Harold might have gotten up to in his absence. Soldiers make all kinds of exceptions when it's their last night on earth.

His mouth opened slowly, his lips curling in disgust. "So you _fucked_ him?"

Sam swept his hand over the table, silent, and Dean grabbed his shoulder.

"Answer me."

Sam brought his gun down on the table, accidentally loosing a round, and Dean's hand flew away. His ears rang like someone running a wet finger over a wine glass, and the room came into sharp focus as Sam slid the .45 in his waistband, his back still turned. He said something, but Dean was disoriented, the blood throbbing in his temples over Sam's words.

"What?" said Dean, faltering slightly. He stared at the back of Sam's head, bent beneath the light, the bones standing out from the nape of his neck. "I can't hear you..."

"It didn't mean anything." said Sam, lifting his face. He stood very still, studying him.

Dean stiffened. "Didn't mean anything..." he echoed, a muscle twitching in the side of his face. He curled his right hand into a fist, but he telegraphed the move and didn't raise his arm halfway before Sam laid a punch on his jaw.

"Fuck!" he hissed, kneading his jaw and steeling himself for the next hit. Dean's fingers skated past a wall display of rifles, each one ready for trouble, and John's ration supply was a box maze of sharp edges. They couldn't have picked a better place to hurt each other in a fight.

"That isn't why he bothers you, is it?" said Sam, carefully crossing one foot in front of another, as if tracking prey in thin grass. Dean tried for a hook, but Sam blocked, pressing a flat hand to Dean's shoulder and straight-arming him out of reach.

"Don't like your replacement?" said Sam coldly.

He meant it in terms of Harold collaborating with John as a huntmate, and was secretly glad of the new partnership, but Dean, panicked by pain and loss of hearing, took it otherwise. By this time tomorrow Dean could be dead, blood dried black on the asphalt, with Sam bent over his corpse with Harold waiting nearby for the widow to request the first of many Pity Fucks. The idea made Dean's gut twist.

"Did it have to be _him_?"

"You think you're any better?" said Sam in a low, hard voice, "You think I didn't see you with John?"

Dean sputtered at the accusation, but the weight of Sam's fury pushed him all the way to the end of the trailer, til he stumbled over the edge of the mattress, catching himself on his elbows and tossing up a cloud of air motes. Sam towered over him, outlined by the raw florescent glare with black fire burning far back in his eyes like a prophet of destruction.

"But Harold..." said Dean, "The way he looks at you..."

Sam knelt slowly. "It doesn't mean anything," he said, laying his hand on Dean's burning cheek, "It never did."

Dean wanted to flinch from his touch, but Sam stayed close, his face softening, and Dean knew his words were so. None of them, not Harold, the creatures, the great trail of broken hearts, meant anything to Sam, for his heart was a dark place where their love could find no purchase.

Dean pulled his legs up, bootheels digging into the edge as Sam lay full-length on top of him. Sam's kiss was cruel and insistent, Dean's soft mouth yielding as Sam wove his fingers through his dark blonde hair. Sam rocked his hips to one side, as if asking permission, and he pushed Dean's lips open to go deeper, scratching himself on a two-day beard until his mouth burned.

Dean ran his hands inside Sam's t-shirt, tracing the lean brown muscles with nails brown with old blood, and opened his throat to Sam's searching mouth. "If I see him touch you again..."

"He won't," said Sam, smearing the words into his skin, the underside of his cock rubbing painfully inside his jeans as Dean's thighs crushed his ribcage, "Cuz you won't get away from me a second time."

Their shirts rode up quickly until hot bare skin slid together in the noonday heat. Sam pressed his thumb to the brass button of Dean's bluejeans, his finger resting inside the fly like the curve of a trigger.

"I couldn't help it," Sam whispered, undoing his belt, "You weren't there, and I needed you so badly. But it was never like this, even then I couldn't finish, not even when I closed my eyes and thought of your face..."

He kissed a wet trail down Dean's body, teeth scraping his belly until he shivered with the need, and slowly began to unpeel Dean's jeans.

"...of all the noises you make." he said, freeing Dean's swollen cock. Sam wiped his mouth on the shoulder of his cotton shirt, blood dried around the collar, and Dean went hard with anticipation.

"John wants some flunky who sleeps in his boots and never learned how to fuck," said Sam, fingers closing around Dean's naked cock, "Let him have it."

Sam's mouth hung tantalizingly over him, a single drop of saliva hanging from the tip of his tongue and landing on the the head of Dean's cock, and Dean lay panting as Sam's hand slowly worked the length of him, his hips corkscrewing off the bed in time, nails digging into the mattress until his whole body ached to be taken.

"Fuck baby boy..." he rasped, locking eyes, "You're killin' me here."

Sam flushed at his words, and he half-considered skipping foreplay to what he really wanted. Not just plowing Dean into the bed, that was already in the cards, but the look on John's face when he walked in on them_ in flagrante_. Some things money can't buy.

Sam's hot breath ghosted over Dean, never breaking the stare, when Harold knocked twice, and opened the door without waiting for a reply.

"Hey guys, I was wondering-"

Sam didn't stop. Whipping the gun from his waistband, blind and off-handed with another man's cock in his hand, he managed to nail the doorframe six inches from Harold's head.

"Get out."

Sam glared over his shoulder, eyes narrowed to slits with smoke still curling from the barrel. Dean raised his head, slick with sweat, and after a second's hesitation Harold shut the door and wandered away.

Sam closed his eyes. "Fuck." he whispered, for soon he heard two pairs of boots crunching the gravel, and began to invent excuses. Dean whimpered, but Sam waved him away and motioned for him to get dressed.

"What's with the weapons discharge?" asked John, as Sam stuck his head out the door, the chain only going so far.

"Sorry sir," he said, avoiding Harold's stare, "Was cleaning my .45 and forgot to check for a round in the chamber."

"Cleaning your guns?" said Harold, snorting derisively, "You're lucky you didn't kill somebody."

"Don't worry," said Sam, a shadow flicking over his face, "I won't be dropping a bullet into you any time soon."

Harold cleared his throat, and then checked the sun in the sky. "Getting late, should we hit the sack?"

"Give me a minute to clean up," said Sam, his hand on the door handle, "I knocked over some stuff, won't take long."

"What'd you tell them?" Dean whispered. He'd straightened his clothes, curled up pretending to be asleep.

"Don't worry about it," Sam replied, regarding John's map of the city on the wall, "You still got that motorcycle stuffed away?"

Dean nodded. "Why?"

"Cuz I don't like John's plan either," Sam said, moving random objects around so it sounded like he was cleaning, "I say we wait for them to fall asleep, then you take us to the last vampire and we can finish the job without a zombie apocalypse."

Dean toed Sam's boot, his knees falling open. "Stop for a minute and get back here." he said, his eyes overly bright. You could have used his erection for a sun dial. "You just gonna leave me like this?"

Sam stopped what he was doing and leaned over, closing Dean's legs like a book. Dean would only be satisfied when he had the vampire bitch's head on a spike, and only then could they stop worrying about the job and Sam could claim him, inside and out. His fingers curled possessively over Dean's kneecaps, mouthing the word silently as John walked in the door.

"Later."


	52. Winchester Special

**Dean, Sam, John, and Harold the hot gay Navy SEAL are in Atlanta, hunting baddies. Dean knows where the last great vampire is hidden, but wants to sneak off with Sam to kill it himself.**

* * *

><p>Dean stood in the dark, stepping carefully on bare feet. It was high noon outside, but everyone else was asleep. He slid one of John's knives from it's sheath, his eyes reflecting nervously back at him, and stuffed a lighter and a can of black spray-paint into his jacket for good measure. You never know what you'll need against vampires.<p>

He held his breath as Sam turned in his sleep. The four of them had crammed onto a mattress built for two, left to right Sam, Dean, John, and Harold against the corrugated steel wall. Dean stared at his empty spot, the imprint of his body next to John, where he'd spent the last hour memorizing the lines of the old man's muscled back, and tore his eyes away.

He lowered himself back onto the bed, the smell of Sam's hair mixing with whatever dish-soap John had used to get the blood out of his uniform. He lay his head on his rolled-up jacket, counting down the minutes until he could rouse Sam and make their getaway.

Ten seconds hadn't passed before Harold rolled over. "John?"

Dean shut his eyes and listened. John said nothing, but Dean could tell he was alert.

"I can't sleep."

"Then go be awake somewhere else." said John wearily.

"But I _need_ to sleep," Harold whispered, a note of desperation in his voice, "This is the only sleep I'm gonna get. What if I can't sleep, and it means the difference between finishing the job tonight or not?"

John sat up in the middle of this little speech, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes. This was Harold's first monster job, he had to cut him some slack. "Alright then, get up, grab a blanket."

Dean stiffened in alarm, not moving as they silently left the train car and walked around the side toward the rain barrels. Why the hell would they need a _blanket?_

Checking to see that Sam had not stirred, Dean scooted to the far wall where there was a chink in the wall. Outside, John seated himself on a busted couch left behind by train-hoppers before the zombie attack, and he pulled a hip flask from his pocket for Harold to share.

But Harold had covered his face, ashamed at his weakness, and he stood with his back to John. Dean understood his fear. Knowing your odds of dying in a fight was one thing, but dying in a zombie fight meant you might wake up part of the horde, mindlessly scavenging the dead until your friends took pity on you and put a bullet in your brain. It was no way for a hero to end.

"You got anyone waiting for you when this is over?" John asked, taking a pull from his flask. He wasn't actually interested, but the boy needed to talk.

"Yeah, but..." Harold said, studying his fingers, "You know how it is when you go back home. It's great at first, seeing your friends, real food, all the hot running water you can stand...and then a week later..."

He gestured to the train yard around them. _You get homesick for war_. Dean thought.

"That why you ran in and tried fighting that vampire on your own the other night?" said John darkly, looking over the flask, "You think home's not worth getting back to?"

Harold averted his eyes. "I said I was sorry," he said quietly, "She was just one girl."

John drained his flask, watching Harold with a strange preoccupation. He'd seen this coming since the day the Senator had partnered him with the fool-headed boy, and he'd need to be drunk for this.

Dean shook his head from side to side in the dark, he knew what John was planning to do, but was frozen in place.

"Was I supposed to be impressed?" said John, standing up and tossing the flask to the couch. He didn't want to do this, but the kid needed his sleep, and narcotics would only leave him groggy later.

Harold's eyes widened. "It won't happen again, sir."

"Damn right it won't," he said, walking up until their faces were inches apart, "I say a thing, you do it. No fool's errand tonight, we can't afford to lose anyone."

Dean pressed his hands to the wall, squinting as John partially blocked Harold from view. Black leather shoulder holsters excentuated his broad shoulders, his hips tilted as the whiskey hit. Harold was both frightened and hopeful, his eyes alighting as John placed a hand on his shoulder.

John studied his intent face for a moment, wishing another boy were in his place. Harold's eyes narrowed, wondering if John had changed his mind, that perhaps Harold had misunderstood John's reason for bringing him outside.

Then John pushed him to his knees. His fingertips hovered over Harold's shoulder, turning to cup his face. Harold's mouth parted, breath hitched in wonder.

"You only gotta remember one thing, working with me."

"Sir?" Harold whispered. Back in the train car, Dean's insides twisted, staring at John's back and silently begging him to stop.

Harold brought his hands up, and John placed them on either side of his belt buckle. "You do as you're told."

Overjoyed, Harold quickly undid John's fatigues, snapping the belt from it's loops and onto the gravel so it wouldn't get in the way later. John's dark eyes gave away nothing, feeling the hot summer air on his cotton briefs as the zipper came free. Harold looked up, pressing his open mouth to John's erection thru the fabric, his tongue flat against the underside, waiting for John to show some sign of weakness.

"I've never met anyone like you," Harold murmured, "You're cool under fire, and the way you got us out last night..."

John grabbed his jaw impatiently. "Open." he ordered.

Harold obliged, wrapping his plush lips around John's cock. John watched impassively as the boy swallowed his full length on the first go, his cockhead beating the back of his mouth. He was never one for fanboys, and at least this shut the kid up.

Dean looked away. His imagination was enough horror for him, remembering what it had been like when he'd been in Harold's place, so eager to please. John's place on the mattress was still warm, and he lay full-length on top of it, burying his face in his arms and trying not to hear.

Harold worked at him for a good twenty minutes, his knees spread far apart on the ground, cheeks flushed with exertion, his lips dark and swollen. John's cock filled his mouth like no other man's, clean and salty, and if Harold did this any longer he'd come in his pants, so long had he waited for this opportunity. He dropped a hand to his own hard-on.

John twisted his fingers thru Harold's hair. "Not yet." he said, pushing Harold away. For a minute there he'd been tempted to let his thoughts drift, to revive an old memory and finish in the kid's mouth. But he couldn't think about Dean now, not with this stranger. It wouldn't be fair.

Harold leaned his cheek against John's glistening cock, wet lips parted as he huffed his breath. "Where now?"

John flicked his eyes toward a set of packing crates. "Get up."

Harold hurried to his feet, his kneecaps cracking, and leaned against the crates. "Like this?"

John looked down at the hard-on pressing against Harold's zipper. "You been doin' like I asked?"

Harold nodded, his chest blooming with the warmth of a treasured secret. "Yes sir," he said, "I ain't come all week."

"Then get undressed."

Harold stopped to unlace his boots, while John cadged around for something to slick himself with. By the time Harold was on his back, naked from the waist down, John was still poking through a car repair kit.

"What's that?" Harold asked, knees closed in a sense of propriety.

John slapped a jar of axle grease in his hand. "You gotta get me ready."

Harold breathed in sharply, not believing his luck but not sure where to start. Sunlight spilled over John's cut form, obvious even under the uniform, his jaw dark with a week's worth of stubble. There had only ever been that one time with Sam, and that seemed ages ago...

"Um..." he said uncertainly, but John grabbed the underside of his right knee and spat in his hand.

"Take your time," said John, pressing a single wet finger against his ass, "You're gonna need a minute yourself."

Harold bit down into his lower lip as John slid tightly inside, half of him wondering why the hell he was letting this man between his legs and the other half electrified.

"You ain't well used," said John in a low voice, "You sure you want this?"

A drop of slick welled up from Harold's cock, and he let out a ragged breath. "This is all I ever wanted."

"Cuz I might not let you finish," said John, sliding in a second finger, widening him, watching him squirm, "Mood strikes me, I might just fuck you 'til you ain't but a meatsock on my cock and leave you still hard enough to knock down a doorframe."

A ribbon of sweat rolled down Harold's chest. "You think that matters to me? I ain't touched myself since I met you," he whispered, his mouth pink and soft, "If I'm gonna finish, I don't want anyone else doing it but you."

Dean hugged himself. He recognized the devotion in the kid's voice, and it made him want to turn his face to the corner and die.

Harold stuck his hand in the jar of grease and spread it across his palm, the comforting smell of engines and machines of death. John's cock was still slippery with spit, but Harold didn't want to waste his time with careful, half-length thrusts.

He greased John's cock, watching John's flat belly slowly moving in and out with the motion, fisting him until it stood at attention above his own cock. The edges of the wooden crates bit into his skin, but he didn't care.

John crooked his arms under both of Harold's legs, hands molding to his firm brown thighs, lifting him high that Harold was suspended mid-air, and had to support his weight on his hands. He was strong, his biceps straining inside his cotton shirt-sleeves, but already his arms began to shiver with the effort.

Dean ground his hips helplessly into the bed. He could still smell John, and his erection became an aching misery. The knife lay hard in his jacket, and more then anything he wanted to get out there and kill something, anything to take his mind off the jealousy eating at his insides.

John nudged the tip of his cock against the little entrance, hot and needy. He hadn't even started, and already the boy underneath him was breathing hard, his hair wet strands against his neck, heart pounding in expectation.

"Breathe in."

John drove into him, slowly into him slowly inch by inch, his heels coming off the ground as he buried himself balls deep into the boy's tight pink ass. Harold shuddered, still holding onto the edge of the crate, and his cock jumped off his belly.

"Now listen carefully," said John in a low voice, as Harold's eyes trained on him for instruction, "You're young, but that don't mean you get to lay there and take it."

"What do I..." said Harold, swallowing as he struggled to remain suspended, "What do you want me to do?"

"Same thing you've been doin' all along," said John, "Don't. Come."

And with a desultory slap on the back of his thigh, John began pumping into him. Back at the Marine base in Fort Worth, when he'd been Harold's age, you'd see local girls lying on the ground, a row of them with panties around their ankles, unable to move, with a secret smile on their lips. The joke was they'd been "shot by a Winchester". Even now, John was the master of quick and dirty, hips slamming, balls slapping against the kid's ass, knowing just the right words as Harold's eyes rolled into the back of his head.

"Don't you come now," he whispered, leaning over to Harold's ear, catching his lower lip between his teeth, "Don't you come on my cock little boy."

Harold gasped for breath. "I'm not gonna last..."

"You're gonna last as long as I want. You're too good," John hissed, "I'm gonna enjoy you."

"Please, I just want to finish..."

John slammed him into the crate, Harold's jaw going slack as his cock was taken in John's hand. "You think you got that right boy?"

John crushed him at the base, still pounding away as Harold grit his teeth in frustration, muscles and sinew standing out as his back arched in need. He's not even talking now, just forcing air thru his teeth as John rutted into him, sharp thrusts so hard it would leave bruises the next day.

"Please, finish with me," Harold begged, his voice hoarse, "I wanna do right by you."

John's lip curled. Was it just this morning he'd made Dean laugh? Held his face in his hands, stolen a kiss in the dark?

He slid his hand up Harold's cock, stripping it expertly until the boy howled like a chicken on a griddle iron, come splashing over his bare chest in three long spurts that felt like a single shot to the gut until he lay in a semi-conscious stupor. John dropped him where he lay, wiping his dirty hand on the boy's shirt. Another chore checked off his list.

John pulled out, wiping his still-hard cock on a rag before folding the blanket over Harold, now finally sleeping. He chucked the rag into the corner, before turning on his heel. Leaning against the door of the train car, he looked in on Dean, and a dark impulse rose up in in. "Good luck with that." he said, stepping inside.

**TBC**


	53. Bonnie Furcoat

**Note: Vampire-zombie (or Vombie) blood has unknown side effects, though the Boys suspect it has accelerated healing properties, which would be super useful in a fight.**

**The vampires in this world drink blood, but can also do a soul-drain to gain power.**

**The last vampire is unknown, but was nicknamed Bonnie Furcoat by the Army because the first thing she did upon arriving in Atlanta was to kill a stripper and steal her clothes. The other vampires buried her after she drained thousands of souls and became too powerful.**

* * *

><p>The boys skidded around the corner in a cloud of rubber smoke, motorcycle zipping past an overturned car where the zombies had dragged the driver thru the windshield, and yet Dean had a song in his heart.<p>

_"She'll be doing Chinese cartwheels when she comes!_

_She'll be doing Chinese cartwheels when she comes!_

_She'll be doing Chinese cartwheels _

_Wearing nothing but her high heels_

_She'll be doing Chinese cartwheels when she comes!"_

"Dean, shut up!" Sam hissed, smiling into Dean's neck as he hugged him tighter.

Dean only sang dirty playground songs when he was scared. Most of the storefront windows were shot out, brickwork pockmarked with bulletholes, and everywhere were bloody trails where citizens had first run, then crawled, then stopped, then stood up again to join the undead horde.

"So what did the sign look like?" Sam asked. Dean insisted that the last vampire was hidden near a Russian sign downtown, but so far they hadn't found anything.

"I dunno, Russian-ish?"

"You even know what Russian looks like?"

"It's got all those..." Dean shook his head from one side to the other, "Ya know, made up letters?"

"Cyrillic," Sam corrected him, "How do you know where it was?"

Dean cut the engine, planting his right foot on the glass-strewn sidewalk. "It was around here. Downtown, I know it was, the buildings are the right shape, the train station on this end and the sky on the other..."

Sam looked around as well, and smiled. "You sure the letters weren't just backwards?"

Dean followed his gaze and blinked. The city must have been in the middle of a massive construction project before the zombies hit, for all the paving bricks had been taken up and neatly piled, twin stairways leading down into a shopping center. Over the entrance was a high metal arch reading:

UNDERGROUND

Dean lept off the seat. "Under ground!" he said, letting the bike fall, "The vampires, they said they had to put her under ground, this must be it." He ran until he was on the opposite side of the sign, and recognizing it at last he clapped his hands and ran back to Sam.

"Git erff." Sam managed, as Dean grabbed his waist and rained kisses on him, "You're welcome OW."

They tumbled backwards onto the pavement, slivers of glass catching in Sam's hair as Dean rolled over on top, smiling. Sam touched the fresh bite on his neck. It wasn't love until it left a mark.

"What's this?" Dean asked, feeling something hard in Sam's jacket.

"I'd nearly forgotten about that." Sam lied, as Dean held up the little syringe to the light. The vampire-zombie blood within was hours old, yet it moved easily, like ink in an old-fashioned pen.

Dean knew Sam's thoughts. "We're not gonna need this." he said, stuffing it into his jacket.

"Yeah I know." said Sam, turning his face away. Nearby a styrofoam cup lay empty, a thin line of coffee dried inside.

"Can I ask you something?"

"We're still in America, last I checked."

Sam turned back to face him. He didn't know where this sudden melancholy came from. "What're you gonna do after I die?"

"Well I always had an eye for those hats with the black veils those Mafia widows always wear," Dean said, propping himself on one elbow, "You always see 'em in the movies, wearing the veils for a cemetery cleaning? I always liked that idea."

"What?"

"I dunno. A picnic on your sweetheart's grave," said Dean wistfully, pulling a strand of hair from Sam's face, then snapped back into character, "I make these bitchin' bacon sandwiches."

"Dean, that's not-"

"I know what you mean. Don't die first," he said, pressing his mouth gently to his, "That's my job."

They climbed back on the motorbike, deciding to circle round the block a few times until Dean recognized another landmark. Sam pressed his cheek to Dean's shoulder, studying the store fronts. All of the clocks had run down, so that it was four o'clock at the bank but nearly ten in the barber shop. Traffic lights bounced in the wind as Dean looked both ways at the intersection.

"Keep an eye out for anything ugly," said Dean, squinting up at the gleaming skyscrapers, "It was, what, five stories high? Doors and windows boarded up in the middle of all these nice offices. Stuck out like a turd on a wedding cake."

Sam nodded absently, watching their reflection in a bookstore window that had survived the riots.

"Hey when did you get the red jacket?" asked Sam.

"What jacket?"

Sam turned to look, and saw that Dean's jacket was the same brown leather it had always been.

"Nothing." said Sam, looking back at the window reflection and deciding it must have been a trick of the light.

Dean revved the motor and turned west, singing another verse.

_"Oh the sheets will be in tangles when she comes!_

_Oh the sheets will be in tangles when she comes!"_

They whipped past another window, and Sam froze when a long, lean face looked back at him.

_"Oh the sheets will be in tangles with her guts around her ankles_

_Oh the sheets will be in tangles when she comes!"_

"Where the hell did you learn that verse?" Sam asked, shocked.

"What, it always went like that," Dean insisted, "It's the engine, it's so loud you must be hearing wrong."

Sam wrapped his arms around him tighter. "Vampires can't come out at day, right?"

"None I heard of. Of course, the other vamps were scared enough to hide her away, so who knows what she's like?" said Dean, a note of curiosity in his voice, "Why?"

Sam checked the window again. Neon signs reading TATTOO and PIERCING hung silently, serpents and sea creatures and impossible women winding along either side of the door. "We're being watched."

Dean snorted, and flexed his hands nervously on the handlebar. He could smell bodies from where they stood, and not the honest kind left out to rot, where a breeze might carry the worst of the stink away. Someone had dug a mass grave nearby, and not very well.

"Save the paranoia baby boy," said Dean, as he turned into the south side of the train station and stopped the bike, "We'll need it soon enough."

Sam looked up. Dean had not exaggerated, the building was the boarded up remnant of the old neighborhood before gentrification had set in. A busted fire hydrant sloshed over their boots, cutting a path in the pavement where grass had sprung up. Sam ran a finger down the board-up entrance, the plywood powdered over yellow with pollen, save for one corner where a dainty hand-print had pressed it back in place.

"It's gonna be dark in there." said Sam warily, eyeing the sealed windows.

"Got it," said Dean, rummaging thru his jacket and producing a flashlight, "Ready?"

Sam nodded. Pulling out a small crowbar, Dean pried the nails loose, and together they plucked the board from it's frame to heave it to the ground.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked.

"Yeah I'm fine."

"It sounded like you said something..." Sam trailed off, peering into the darkness. But nothing peered back.

Dean ignored this and flicked on the light, stepping carefully over carpet still soggy from recent flooding. "I think this place has a basement," he said, "So watch for soft spots in the floor, I don't want us falling thru a rotted beam, 'kay?"

Sam's eyes followed the pyramid of light on the floor, touching the handgun tucked into his waistband. They'd entered a narrow hallway, where bloody hand-prints trailed the walls as if someone had reached out while being carried aloft. "You know where we're going?"

"Yeah, there was...this elevator," said Dean, his voice catching, "It's not far."

And without warning, he grabbed Sam's hand. Sam smiled. "I'm not going anywhere."

The chain clinked between them, and Dean ducked his head. "Yeah I know. But...stay close anyway."

Dean wrinkled his nose and pulled his collar over his face. The smell was overpowering now, and soon they ran out of hallway.

"She's in there?" Sam asked.

Dean shined the light between the open elevator doors, and cursed himself for not thinking to pack some lighter fluid. The shaft was full, bloated dead piled up like a toddler who'd pulled all their stuffed animals over their head before falling asleep, with the vampire buried somewhere at the bottom. The corpses would have burned easily, but with no fuel to start the fire...

"...we're gonna have to pull 'em out, dammit." said Dean, handing the light to Sam, "Dammit, dammit, let's go find some damn rope, dammit."

Scavenging some extension cords from a corner office, Dean peeled off his shirt for a makeshift bandanna, and volunteering himself for the job he grabbed the first body by the armpits and lifted it high enough for Sam to secure the cord around it's chest.

"This is gonna take too long," Sam commented, arms straining as he dragged a telemarketer onto the floor, "We'll run out of daylight."

"Shut up and heave ho."

The first few were easy, close enough floor level that one boy could easily remove it. But soon Dean was descending further and further, until he was waist-high to the elevator entrance, the pile having composted into a meat slurry that puddled around his feet.

Sam slumped against the wall. "I'm tired."

"Suck it up," said Dean, wiping the sweat from his brow and bending down for the next load, "We're halfway there."

Sam untied the cord from the last body, coiling it around his arm. A stray piece of exposed copper snagged his hand, and he hissed as a bead of blood swelled in his palm. He groaned, shining the light on it and wondering if John had any Betadine back at the camp, when a drop of blood fell onto a clean patch of carpet.

He watched it, ignoring the hurt as it splashed in a neat circle, and then, with a faint sucking noise, watched it disappear into the carpet.

"Um...Dean..."

"What?"

Sam pointed the flashlight down the hallway, and his heart skipped a beat. A young girl sat cross-legged a few feet away, staring, slack-jawed. Long black hair fell in curtains on either side of her pointed face, shoulders slumped inside a red fur shrug, with silver shorts and platform plastic heels sparkling in the light.

He did not move, but rather held his injured hand in the air, letting another drop hit the carpet. A long black tongue extended from between her teeth, sniffing the air, and touched on the spot where Sam's blood had fallen. His eyes widened, and he shivered with secret delight.

"Sam, get the fuck over here." said Dean, arms trembling under a man twice his size.

"Dean!" Sam said excitedly.

Dean dropped the body and popped his head up. "Come on, I can't do all the work."

Sam gestured, looking back and forth between them as she continued to stare mutely. She seemed to be making up her mind about something. "Can't you...can't you see her?"

"See who?"

Sam turned his head, and this time the girl was standing, a steel pole in her arms where none had been before. She had small, almond-shaped eyes, and she favored him with a wicked smile as she pressed the sharp edge of the pole to his chest.

"Dean," Sam whispered, reminded of Dean's dirty song, "She's coming..."

Dean squinted into the hall, not sure what Sam had said. Too late, he remembered something John had told him about this particular vampire. _"They're fast," he'd said, playing a security camera video of a vampire victim whose heart had stopped before she even knew what hit her, "They're so damned fast."_

The next second, blood bloomed on the back of Sam's shirt, and Dean screamed Sam's name, vaulting out of the elevator shaft.

"Sammy!" he yelled, fumbling for his gun as Sam gurgled in reply, the phantom steel run through him like a fishhook.

Dean squeezed off a few rounds in her general direction, but they passed thru empty air. She eyed Sam fiercely, the smile splitting her face as she slowly lifted the pole and raised him into the air, his hands clutching desperately as his head hit the ceiling.

"SAM!" Dean yelled, trying to pull him down, without success. Sam stayed up for a few seconds, eyes shining in the light of the dropped flashlight, and then began to slide down toward her, blood dribbling down his chin as he tried to scream.

Her lips parted as he neared, watching the last thoughts in his eyes. He was ripe, the smell of a boy who's death was long overdue, and it made her mouth water.

All the sound went out of the room, like someone had turned a dial, and all Sam could hear was her, the thousands and thousands of souls inside of her like a hive of insects. Their faces were inches away, kissing close...

And then his heart stopped, and he fell to the floor.

"Sammy!" Dean shouted. He shined the light on Sam and sucked back a cry of horror, Sam's shirt gone black with blood and a hole big enough for Dean to stick his thumb in.

"Oh baby boy," he whimpered, "What the hell happened to you?"

He cradled Sam in his arms, shaking, when a bell dinged.

Dean waited a moment before turning his head. When he'd last seen this cursed place, in Peaches' memory, he'd nearly lost a photo of Sam in that same elevator. He'd taken it for a dream, not being one for premonitions.

The button by the elevator door burned red, and beneath a cone of yellow light stood Sam, flickering in and out of focus. Bonnie floated behind him, feet dangling an inch above the floor, her arms wrapped around Sam's chest.

"Dean..." he whispered, his eyes wide with fear. The light winked out, and as the doors closed Dean felt some part of him go hollow, and Sam's body went cold in his arms.

Dean's mouth fell open, a dark knot of despair building in his gut that he knew would soon swallow him if he didn't start moving.

"Get up," Dean whispered to himself, "Get up and walk you son of a bitch."

He slung Sam over his shoulder. Everybody had to die sometime, but he was damned if Sam had to do it in this godforsaken place.

Dean ran outside, turning the boy toward him on the motorcycle seat and gunning the engine so hard he nearly brained them both against a telephone pole. The train yard, where John kept the first aid supplies, was miles away, and he doubted the hospital had the necessaries to handle Sam's injuries.

"Keep it up baby boy, you're gonna make it." he said, not looking down at Sam. They hit an interstate ramp, the highway climbing over the skyline against the pink twilight, the clouds long and thin as cigarettes. With no traffic to ruin the view, it was actually quite lovely, but Sam wasn't around to appreciate it. Dean felt something wet on his face, and brushed it away.

He glanced over the edge of the bridge. It was a long drop. _But it'd be quick._ he thought.

_True_, said another, older voice in the back of his head, _But he's not worth it. Not anymore._

He passed another train station, one that went deep into the ground, and he made a decision. Ditching the bike, he heaved Sam over the turnstile, and carried him down the frozen escalator. The sun would go down soon, and they had to be hidden before the dead came out.

The stairs led far below the earth, easily a half-mile, but Dean did not slow, his breath hot on Sam's face. Walls of rough-hewn rock surrounded him on all sides, and when they reached the bottom and he shined the flashlight at the ceiling, the light disappeared into shadows.

"Okay," he said, laying Sam on the tiled floor and rummaging in his jacket. His flashlight was running out of power, and soon they would be pitched into darkness. "Where is that fucking thing..."

He dumped everything, weapons, candy, fairground tokens, until he heard a familiar clink. He snatched up the syringe of blood, and swallowed hard. There was no telling if the stuff would work or not, if Sam would revive, stay dead...or some combination of both.

A little kiosk stood nearby, with watches and cheap jewelry behind glass, and one of the pieces within caught his eye. Against a black velvet display case sat a rhinestone pin in the shape of an angel, with tiny blue eyes and a gold tag that read:

CASTIEL: ANGEL OF LOST THINGS

It was a cheap Chinese factory model, selling for ten dollars at best and collecting dust for months. But Dean didn't know rhinestones from the real deal, and took it for something precious. His eyes watered again.

"Please let this work." he prayed to the little pin. The flashlight turned off, and he slapped it back to life, yanking off the stopper with his teeth as he cradled Sam's skull in one hand.

"I'm gonna get you thru this night," he whispered, his lips brushing Sam's ear, "I know you're out there, and I'm coming for you Sammy."

He leaned in for one more tender kiss. Then, just as the flashlight died out, he plunged the needle into the back of Sam's brain.


	54. Warm Bodies

**Note: Atlanta was hit by a zombie attack, and all the remaining undead were stuffed into the local penitentiary. **

**A very powerful vampire punched a hole thru Sam's chest and then drained his soul. Dean escaped to a subway station with Sam's body and administered a mix of zombie/vampire blood to re-animate Sam.**

**Dean and Sam have been chained together this whole time after being arrested several chapters ago.**

**This subway station exists, so if you're in Atlanta for DragonCon go visit the Peachtree Center station.**

* * *

><p>"What's red and yellow and looks good on hippies?"<p>

Sam stared back, pupils gray, the veins black on either side of his face.

"Fire!" Dean answered, smiling, "Okay, so three guys walk into a whorehouse..."

Though the light was gone behind his eyes, Dean felt that as long as he kept talking, Sam could follow his voice home. Come morning, he'd climb back to street level and shake that vampire bitch by the ankles until she coughed up Sam's soul.

Dean marched them back and forth across the subway platform, as if zombie blood were something that required sobering up, and with Sam's arm flung about his neck he began to sing every playground song he knew, from the Hearse Song to "Lizzie Borden Had an Axe" to his personal version of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game".

_Date night out with the prom queen, cherry bomb in my lap_

_Stuck it inside her and lit the match, til she had smoke pouring out of her snatch_

_And it's boom boom boom in the backseat, gotta take one for the team_

_So it's one, two, three strikes pull out of the old prom queen!_

The flashlight had died hours ago, but Dean was too scared to sleep. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good dream. Squirrels lined a granite bench, nibbling bones as polite as a Methodist prayer breakfast, but every now and then they shot Sam a hopeful look, and Dean would punt them across the tracks like bitchy fur slippers.

The wound had sealed over in a matter of minutes, Sam's skin as smooth as a wax candle, but every now and then there would be a noise in the tunnels, a liquid gurgle like somebody working a plugged sink, and Sam would pull away from Dean.

"Hey now," he said, yanking the chain until Sam's hip connected with his, "Nobody's expecting you." With a zombie horde up top, he didn't like to think what doors might have been left open down here, and the chain was a great comfort for once.

He fingered the hole in Sam's bloody shirt. "I got somethin' for ya," he said, pulling out the little blue angel pin he'd stolen from the kiosk, "Nice, ain't it?"

Holding it up for Sam to see, he considered going back and stealing the rest of the rhinestone pins. He wanted something nice for Sam, they never came away from a job with anything like pirate treasure.

"Would kill for a radio," he muttered, fumbling thru a dead girl's purse and wrinkling his noise at a Wham! cassingle, "Tell ya what, we finish this job, you want I should take us to Orlando? Dance clubs, palm trees, fuck the beautiful yoga moms at Disney?"

Later, Dean stared at the rock ceiling, not recalling having laid down. Several chalk outlines lay sprawled around them, a tangle of phantom limbs squared off by yellow police tape. He'd cleared thru his catalogue of blonde jokes a while back, and didn't feel like repeating any dirty stories of girlfriends past. Didn't seem fitting.

"I knew this girl," said Dean, struggling to stay awake, "A hitchhiker headed for Miami before winter hit. She walked so much, she didn't carry anything she didn't absolutely need, not even the key to her mom's house."

He traced the curve of Sam's cheek. The cursed blood had hallowed his eyes, lips slightly parted against clean, glowing teeth. Monster looked good on him.

"But she'd stopped at a music festival once, long enough to work a food truck and get a hot meal out of it, and got the autograph of some hotshot guitarist she'd fucked. And it weren't on a photo or in a book, just the back of some scrap paper," he said, snorting at the folly of girlhood sentiment, "I mean, who carries a name around?"

He ran his fingers absently thru Sam's hair. "When I asked her, she said it didn't mean anything to anyone else," he said, drawing close, "But every time she looked at it she remembered that one good day."

A breeze from the tunnels lifted the police tape nearby, running lightly over both boys, but otherwise Sam did not stir. Dean lingered, his breath hot on Sam's face, but did not dare kiss him on the mouth. Who knew what a bite would transmit?

"I guess everybody needs their bad luck charm."

He curled his fingers around the back of Sam's neck, breathing soft thru his nose as he pressed his mouth to Sam's pulse. Closing his eyes, he undid his jeans, and rolled over to press his cock into Sam's hip. Fear of the hunt always gave him wood.

"Come on baby boy I know you're in there," he whispered, laying a hand on his knee, "Come back."

The wind sucked thru the tunnels, a knowing noise, and Sam's head turned to follow it. Dean waited, his chest aching, and then grit his teeth and pulled away. It wasn't Sam.

He rolled onto his back, fingers lingering on his waistband, and wondered if John were having a good time without him. He was so tired, had all that been real? Or had he dreamt it?

"Just need some fuckin' sleep..." he said, rubbing his face. He pulled his cock free from his jeans, and remembered from earlier that day...

(*)

John had stepped into the shipping container and stood by the work table, starlight angling in from the door. He inventoried the supplies for the next day's zombie raid and stretched inside of his shoulder holster. Outside Harold lay slumped up in his own cum, while Sam was snoring on the far side of the mattress by Dean.

Dean listened, his face buried in his arms. John undid his jeans, pouring bottled water over a rag and pulling out his cock. He lifted it's length, turning it this way and that, inspecting the corners, running the cloth back and forth to scrub the smell of Harold out. Only then did he check his gun, unlace his boots, and measure the number of steps from the bed to the door before hanging his holster on a nail.

John stared into the dark a long time, as he would often do when a deer bolted in front of his truck on the highway and he sensed another one wasn't far behind, back in the trees. Always made for a bloody fucking mess if you didn't wait for the second one.

Then he took Dean by the shoulder and rolled him into his back.

Dean reached for his hip, where his gun ought to be, thinking John had woken him for a job. He sat up on his elbows. "What 'sa matter?"

Dean was still in his bloody cotton shirt, and sat up on his elbows as John pressed his mouth to his. Dean breathed hard thru his nose, eyes shut as his hand hovering an inch from John's chest. He made a high, small sound in his throat. Like someone shutting an old door.

John shoved him onto the bed with a snap and bracketed Dean's hips with his knees, and Dean stuffed his hand down his pants. John was clean and pink now after his earlier fuck, but painfully hard, and Dean circled a practiced thumb over the slit, slick and eager.

Three feet away, Sam rolled over in his sleep, facing the other way. John waited. Then he looked down at Dean again.

He wanted Dean with him on this hunt so badly. The kid was whip smart in the field, a crack shot and a gallows humor that got him thru the nastier aspects of the business. He saw them, creatures at their heels, Dean wiping the sweat from his brow, machine gun pushed against his waist and a grenade pin between his teeth. And later, a knowing leer as he stepped out of his fatigues and climbed onto John, stretched tight around his cock, huffing John's name between his teeth as the old man growled and bit his shoulder.

Dean's eyes flicked down at John's cock, and traveled up again more slowly. The boy was hard beneath him, hair tacky with blood from last night's hunt. And very carefully Dean pulled his shirt up, lean brown muscle, a thin line of sweat down the center of his chest. John knelt there, his cock in his hand.

He pumped his cock slowly, the swollen head just about the boy's belly. Dean's breath staggered, looking up thru his lashes and his mouth open in a fox smile as if...expectant. But no, John didn't mean to go there. He meant for the boy to wear it for the coming fight, like a knight's favor.

John leaned in and Dean's lips parted for him, sucking the whiskey from his tongue until the old man shuddered. It was always too quick with women, John would be up fast enough, but spend just as suddenly. With the boy though, it was a slow heat starting in his balls that burned up the length of his cock before circling back and hitting him in the base of his spine. He worked himself faster, their mouths sealed, his free hand fisting the blanket by Dean's head as the boy grabbed his hips and beckoned him...

(*)

Dean let out his breath in a huff, hips slamming into the floor as hot jizz shot across his chest. He lay their for a moment with his eyes closed, listening to his heart thump in the gloomy train station.

"Sammy?" he whispered, pulling his shirt down. He stretched out his hand, and felt the stone floor. Shit, long had be been asleep?

He fumbled for his lighter, and held the tiny flame aloft. "Sam?"

He looked down at the chain. A circlet still locked around him like a steel girdle with perhaps a two foot length dangling from the center. But instead of a boy there lay only a few twisted links between his boots.

"Sam!" he cried, the word choking him. He lept over the turnstile, taking the frozen escalator two steps at a time, and when he reached daylight he had to throw up his hands to shield his eyes, he'd been underground so long. Banners celebrating Martin Luther King day flapped in the breeze.

"SAM!"

He ran at first, shouting Sam's name before jumping on the motorcycle and circling the block. From their perches the squirrels watched, his cries rolling up the empty skyscrapers and bouncing down the empty streets. From far away a horse whinnied, and the squirrels twitched to one side, their ears folded against their skulls.

After a while Dean dismounted. The penitentiary was less then five miles away, an easy distance to cover on foot even for a half-dead boy. If Sam had gone to join the horde...

The chain rattled round his waist, so much heavier then it had been before. He stood beside an MLK Day billboard, smiling faces dark with the spray of brain matter, but the text still read, _"Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery."_

"Sammy..." he whispered, falling to his knees and sobbing hard toddler tears, "Where the hell are you?"

He lay his forehead against the concrete, chest burning as he struggled to breath. Something stung him from inside his jacket, and he fumbled in his pocket for the little blue angel pin. He had never been one for prayer, but...

He closed his fingers around it and shut his eyes. "Please please please can't I get a little good luck for once?"

He lay like that for some time, saying the words over and over with his fingers folded over the back of his head and voice raw from crying, when he heard it.

Dean pricked his ears, but did not look up right away. He drew the gun from his waistband and raised it before him, trying to figure out where that noise was coming from, a wet sound, like someone tearing a steak in half...

The horse was five feet tall at the shoulder, white with flecks of bloody foam about it's mouth and a web of black veins across it's chest. It had fastened it's teeth around a banker's hand, crunching it down bones and all, and when a squirrel climbed onto it's head to tear a strip off it's massive skull, it did not blink. It turned to stare at Dean down it's long nose, entrails dragging on the ground from it's open belly.

Dean swallowed, but his gun did not waver. A normal undead horse would've taken him over a corpse in one shake. This had to be a sign.

"So, you gonna take me to him?"

The horse said nothing, but slowly turned away and began to walk south. Toward the penitentiary.

Dean sucked in a shaky breath and looked down at the angel pin. "Okay baby boy," he said, stuffing it away and squaring his shoulders, "I'm comin' for ya."

(*)

TBC


	55. Jeepers Creepers

**Note: Zombie!Sam**

**The last few chapters, Dean has sung dirty playground songs to keep Sam's spirits up.**

**Sorry this one's rushed, the next one will be way dirtier.**

* * *

><p>Newly undead are easy to track. Just follow the garbage bags.<p>

Dean grabbed one from a tree limb, plastic rustling in the heavily laden pine like the Devil's Christmas tree. Zombies always hit a moment of indecision before joining the horde, and thinking they would "get better" once they fed, a lot of them bagged up their valuables in a high place to retrieve later.

_Like a coat check at a restaurant,_ John had said once, _They all think they're going home after they eat._

He never found Sam's ring, to his relief. Mostly it was watches and reading glasses, though Dean pocketed the folding money, and looped a wedding band onto his bootlace. It wasn't grave-robbing if the dead couldn't bother to be buried.

As they got closer the dead horse's ears perked up, and it went into a canter. It took him longer to hear it, the distorted warble of an emergency broadcast echoing from the south, and he rushed to keep up.

_"...wah-wah white wee-wah-wool..."_

The horse led him down a mile of bad street, the windows papered over, dogs roaming in packs, and a line of smoke from behind the coin laundry. Most of the cars were torched, the tires melted to puddles of slag. One house had a football helmet nailed to the front door, a bundle of animal bones dangling from the mask, and the owner had barricaded the yard with a ring of shopping carts.

But below it all was the penitentiary, a wide expanse of manicured lawns admist soft rolling hills, with colonial style out-buildings and flags snapping over the marble entrance. Tank treads, which had flattened most of the surrounding woods, stopped short of the barbed wire fence. If not for the gun turrets, he'd have mistook it for the governor's mansion.

Dean stood by the church van at the prison gate, tipped on it's side with the door ripped away.

"...FRIDAY NIGHT REVIVAL...HOT CHICKEN SANDWICHES..."

_This place is huge, _he thought_, How the hell am I supposed to find Sam without tipping off the others?_

He looked at the church van. _ I don't._

Reaching inside, he found an old shirt and a mop behind the driver's seat, and unscrewing the handle, he fixed the shirt to the end in a tight knot and went around to shove it down the gas tank. Part of the chainlink fence was torn from the clay, and he ducked beneath it, eyes flicking from one window to the next.

The front lobby was ten degrees cooler inside, the walls painted black the first six feet and then white all the way up to the rafters. A wall phone hung by it's cord, and holding his gun in one hand and the unlit torch in the other, he passed several numbered doors. The last one, labeled STAIR 3, had the lock shot out, and he gently toed it open.

_Where's the welcoming committee?_ he thought. Undead had a dog's sense of smell, they should have been hanging out the windows trying to get at him by now. He climbed to the next floor, pink water puddling beneath the door to Cell Block A.

It was black within, a windowless wing of the building, and he fumbled for his lighter. _Maybe they starved,_ he thought, as he stepped in and swept the torchlight across the room, _Inmates only keep for so long. _Fear fueled his jealousy, and he wondered how many of the creatures Sam had been with so far. It had only been a few hours, but the thought of him with a corpse...

A brown high water mark stained the wall about twelve inches up. He touched his finger to it and sniffed. _Inmate_, he thought, noting the busted copper pipes in the drywall, _Place must've flooded after the invasion, swept the mess away._

Beyond that, he could find no trace of the dead. Not a whisper, not a bloody handprint anywhere. Something warm landed on his cheek, and he put his hand up to it.

_It hadn't been raining outside._ he thought, raising the torch above his head. The room was thirty feet high here, the light glinting off stainless steel bars.

He waited, watching. And then, soundlessly, the ceiling...moved. _Holy fucking hell._ he thought. Hundreds of bodies crowded together like insects, some clinging by their fingertips, others fastened to their neighbors with rotting stumps. A good third of them wore orange prison jumpsuits. If they feared the fire they gave no sign.

_He's gotta be in there somewhere, _he thought, swallowing hard. He thumbed the pale shadow where Sam's ring had been, and took a deep breath.

_"Oh Suzanna, oh don't you cry for me..."_

His voice carried thru the building, and when the echo rebounded something spidered it's way across the other bodies, glistening in the torchlight as it moved. A knot of gray-pink inmates made way for it.

_"Cuz boys are dime a dozen, but the best ones come for free."_

It twisted it's head a hundred and eighty degrees to peer down at him. For a moment, torchlight reflected white in Sam's eyes, and as recognition flared, Dean's courage failed him. He fell on the floor, scrabbling backwards for a few seconds until he found his gun, and ran for the nearest exit.

He hadn't slammed the door shut for a heartbeat before the cell block exploded and all the dead hit the ground running. He eyed the window facing the street where he'd come from, and made a snap decision. Biting his hand, he swiped blood along the length of the torch and shoved it out the window, hoping the lure would buy him some time. He couldn't leave without Sam just yet.

A hand punched thru the door, raking at his arm, and skipping steps to the next floor he opened the door with his clean hand and hid inside the first office he found. He waited, crouched beside the metal barred door, as the dead took the bait and headed in the opposite direction.

As his eyes adjusted, he looked around the office and realized he must have found the warden's office. Thinking himself alone, he drew the window blinds and light flooded a sea of overturned filing cabinets. A huge map papered the floor, desk papers scribbled over in blue ink and tacky with fresh blood. He drew a line with his finger from one X on the city map to the other, from downtown to the city zoo to a wedge of green space by the interstate, and wondered what linked them.

_Since when do the dead need directions? _he thought. Suddenly a door opened somewhere, and he dropped behind the desk and drew his gun with both hands. Thru the gap between the chair legs, he watched a long shadow emerge.

Sam crawled backwards on all fours, dragging a dead girl by his teeth. The top half of her head had been shot off, her brains held in place by slivers of bone, but from the nose down she was quite lovely, long limbs and soft curves inside her nurse's cardigan.

Once he kicked the door shut, she grabbed his belt and pulled herself to her knees, blindly undoing his jeans with a hungry wheezing in her chest. He bent down, fingers tangled in her hair as he kissed her and then guided her mouth elsewhere.

The gun trembled in Dean's hand. _I gotta watch this?_ he thought bitterly, as she grabbed Sam's ass and took him in long practiced strokes. Sam looked down at her, running a thumb along her ruined cheek, and soon he lifted her to circle his arms about her narrow hips and kiss her throat, blood oozing slowly between his fingers as he pressed a hand to her breast.

When his other hand searched inside her skirt, she gave an inhuman noise of impatience, and her legs molded around his waist as he lifted her against the wall. Dean leveled the gun as her panties were torn away, but did not fire. Sam was directly in front of her, he'd have to wait to get a good bead.

He didn't have to wait long. So overcome was she with desire that she tipped back her head with the first thrust, and with a final moan of ecstasy her brains slipped from it's perch and slopped onto the floor in a gray soup. Sam looked on in disbelief, shaking her like a doll, and when she did not respond he dropped her in a heap, his dick still hard and wet.

Dean stifled a laugh. _Should've seen that one coming._ he thought.

He froze as Sam turn his head a fraction, listening over his shoulder. Holding his breath, he watched Sam turn around, eyes gray and chin dripping blood, and walk to the office door. Dean stood straight, pressed against the hard edge of the desk and felt sweat run inside his shirt.

Sam stepped inside and closed the door behind him, laying a hand on the lock. It was the old-fashioned kind, a metal plate the size of his palm, and meeting Dean's eyes he crushed it into place and let his hand fall away. His fingers left deep grooves in the steel, and all that time he did not blink once.

The graveyard smell hit him, and Dean recoiled in revulsion and a dark, nameless longing. He stared at Sam's bared teeth.

_If he bites me_, he thought, gun trembling, the walls closing in on him, _I'll never leave this place._

He let Sam get within a few inches of him. Somewhere along the way Sam had lost his shirt, and the cursed blood that made him scavenge on all fours like a bloodhound had also hardened his natural beauty. He was redrawn in shades of blue, his mouth a pale lavender, his nails black, dark lines scoring his chest where the girl had scratched him. When he stopped in the center of the room, he remained perfectly still.

But Dean looked down at his hands and saw the ring. He had not dropped it as the other had. _He's still in there, somewhere._ he thought. Even this far gone, there had to be a way of reaching him.

Dean's heart hammered in his chest as he set the gun on the desk. Sam's eyes slid down to it, disconcerted as Dean took a slow frightened breath. Dean had always had one rule in their long, strange adventure, and that was_ Never fuck the quarry._ Hands by his side, his face shining with sweat, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of Sam's mouth.

He held it there a moment until his lips warmed Sam's skin, eyes shut tight, their thighs pressed together. The air was very close, and the moment stretched until he breathed in again and looked up.

A shadow passed over Sam's eyes, curious, and Dean kissed him again, full on the mouth. Hungry for two different things and unable to choose, Sam tilted his head to kiss back, and Dean took it for a sign. He undid his shirt buttons with shaky fingers, and taking Sam's hand in his he pushed it inside, flattening it against warm muscle. Sam felt his heartbeat, fingertips curling as their cheeks pressed together and Dean whispered

"Fuck. Me."

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	56. Game of Bones

**Notes: Porn yo, complicated sex scene if you don't read previous chapters, so read these notes.**

**Zombie!Sam in Atlanta. **

**Sam is infected with a mix of zombie/vampire blood, making him undead but smarter than your average zombie. **

**His soul is locked inside a very powerful vampire who soul-drained him several chapters back. **

**Dean was briefly soul-drained earlier, but revived by wandering the spirit world with a photo of Sam, which led him back to his own body. **

**Dean believes Sam's soul will re-surface if he listens to Dean's voice long enough.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Dean stood with his cheek pressed to Sam's, and wondered if he had understood. Did the dead have their own word for "fuck"?<p>

He pointed out the window. "I passed a park on my way here," he said, "No one's cut the lawn in a while, it's so green it looks fake."

He named every tree he'd seen, the sunburst art on the houses, all the while leaning into the light and directing his gaze to the distance. Even if Sam had forgotten English, Dean had to get him thinking _Outside_.

He seated himself on the desk and arighted Sam's jeans. "That can wait til we get there. Don't it sound nice, place like that?" he whispered, putting both of Sam's hands on his knees. He'd be lying if he hadn't imagined John spreading him out on the grass as well, but who counts that?

Sam's lips pulled back from wet, red teeth. Would Dean die here, to be pulled apart and shared with the others? Or would the bite turn him, so that they might both wander the earth from the other side of the rifle scope?

Dean's gun was close, he need only drop his hand. He wondered how long John would suffer them to live, when Sam gently pushed him away, and turned toward one of the filing cabinets.

_He's hungry._ Dean thought, as Sam opened the top drawer. He pulled out a leg wrapped in scraps of police uniform, and holding both ends like a corncob he sank his teeth into the tender flesh. Dean backed into the desk, sickened, but a spark of reason lit Sam's eyes, and he pointed at the map on the floor while continuing with his breakfast.

"The lair," said Dean, kneeling to study the blue X marking Bonnie Furcoat's hideout, "I just come from there, you wanna go back?"

Sam shook his head, tearing off another strip and pointing northeast on the map.

"The zoo?" Dean asked, "John mentioned it in his file, the hell you gonna find there?"

Sam swallowed, but could not find the word he wanted. He put two fingers to his lips in a "V", but Dean shook his head.

"There's only four vampires Sammy. Ain't nobody in that zoo."

Sam chewed thoughtfully, but said nothing and pointed to three circles on the map. Dean bent closer to read the fine print and named them slowly.

"Oakland Cemetery. Rose Cemetary. Bankhead Station. The vampires aren't there, why're we bothering?" he said, lifting his head, "And why won't you talk?"

Sam paced the room, slapping the bone in his open palm as he stood deep in thought.

Dean stopped him by the door. "Come on baby boy," he said, putting both hands on Sam's arms, "Those fuckers're gonna be back any minute, we need to leave."

Sam looked thru his bangs and pointed up. Dean followed his finger and lept half-way across the floor.

The dead jostled for space on the ceiling, gray-eyed, hanging from their hands and feet like cured hams. When Sam nodded, they spread their arms and landed on the floor in a uniform crouch.

Dean's mouth fell open. "How did you...do that?"

Three girls in the front row pressed against the steel bars, mewling as Sam snapped the bone and dripped marrow between their greedy lips. Though they shared the remainder of his meal, their native awareness did not surface as it had with Sam. _Must be something in his blood,_ he thought,_ No wonder they're following him. He's the smartest guy in the room._

The girls wrapped their arms around Sam to draw him closer, lapping the blood off his face and chest with little gray tongues. He took their grateful kisses in stony silence, like a bitch with her litter, though once or twice he kissed back.

Dean chanced a step closer, and all at once the horde moved as one, slavering and clambering to get thru the bars. Sam shouted something, and immediately they quieted and withdrew.

Dean was on his side, panting for breath with the gun somehow in his hands again. Sam spoke in a low voice, but Dean made no sense of it, and backed away further.

He wasn't three feet away when Sam seized him by the back of the neck and began to drag him across the room on all fours, stopping in front of the door where all the dead might view him. Dean kept his eyes down, trying not to touch the policeman's blood.

Sam commanded the horde in a series of barks and rolling hisses, a dialect of Hell native to the newly dead. He tightened his fingers around Dean for emphasis once or twice, and at this the dead would glance at him and shake their heads. _Mine_.

Where the hell was John? He must have come in the night to set up the explosives, but would he come here to set them off, or set them off by remote control from a high replace?

One girl was braver then the others, and stuck a hand thru the bars to trace Dean's bare chest. When she sucked the sweat off her fingers, her eyes narrowed, and she made a long, drawn out "no" like "naaaaaaaaawww..."

Sam asked her a question, and she gave a nasty smile, her eye teeth plated in gold. She raised her hand for everyone to smell, and one of the dead assented, it was familiar.

Dean craned his neck, listening as several members ran downstairs, while the others kept a respectful distance. A few seconds later, a girl returned with something in her arms, and tossed it at Sam's feet.

_Oh shit_. Dean thought, staring at the bundle of dynamite. Six sticks bound in ductape, hand-packed with a mix of zinc dust and greasy fingerprints pressed all over.

Sam didn't pick it up. Slowly he lifted Dean to eye level, inspecting him as if they were alone, puzzling out the time-stamp of John's scent and realizing when it occurred.

_He knows,_ he thought, as the dead inched forward, waiting for Sam's pronouncement. How long did traitors live before getting tossed into the dog bowl? He had to get food off Sam's mind.

Sam still had his hand on his neck, and though his face was distant the nails ground into Dean. The anger was there, but slow to rise, still bottled in the vampire miles away. If he couldn't summon Sam's soul with a song...

"Yeah, it was yesterday morning," he said, a toy smile at the corner of his mouth, "While you were asleep."

The dead climbed on top of each other, layered in twos and threes to get a better look. Steel bars bowed outward under the weight, but the frame held.

"He's gonna fuck me but good once the city's cleared, so..." he said, bending into Sam's face, "Think of it as a down payment."

Something burned far away in his eyes, but Dean did not have him yet. He grabbed a fistful of Sam's hair.

"Here," he said, shoving Sam's face into his chest, "Have a taste."

Sam wrapped both thumbs around his windpipe and slammed him to the floor, a low burr in the back of his throat and a whoop of delight from the horde as they rushed forward. Dean twisted away, trying to push off with his boots, but Sam leaned in until he felt something pop.

Dean grabbed his forearms and laughed, a thin line of blood running down his chin. "You were...you were three feet away," he said hoarsely, "You tellin' me you didn't hear it?"

Sam arched him backwards until the back of Dean's head hit the floor, one pale hand on Dean's wrist and the other pushing his jaw away to expose his throat. Dean panted, boot-heels digging into the small of his back, his breath catching as Sam's mouth parted over fangs so long they cut into his lower lip. _He's gonna open me up like a fire hydrant._ he thought.

"You think I'm scared? You think you and your Michael Jackson extras are gonna get my dick up?"

He shook his head a fraction from side to side, corners of his mouth lifting.

"You'll never be as good in this life as he is in my head."

He shuddered as Sam pressed his open mouth to his throat, cold and breathless. It had a ring of finality that the other vampires lacked, and Dean breathed hard thru his teeth.

"Do it."

The side of his face pressed into the floor with Sam buried in his neck. The water stains on the ceiling looked like phantom faces from where he lay, and some of the policeman's blood had soaked thru his jeans. And yet something soft floated over his mouth, a dark lock of hair, and Dean closed his eyes to inhale the smell of Sam one last time. He chose his words carefully.

"You kill me now, the way you are, you'll have my flesh and blood runnin' thru your veins for all eternity," he whispered, wondering if the boy trapped in that elevator could hear it, "Or give me some kind of word, and I'll put a bullet in your brain right now and follow you into the dark right after. You got my word."

Sam listened. The dead listened, still and gray as a winter wood.

"At least we'll be together.

Sam's fingers crept over Dean's face until they pressed against his lips, clamping over his mouth and raising his head to meet his eyes. The filing cabinets stank like a butcher's block, and Dean wondered if he was about to share one. Dean's ploy had worked, but whatever had followed the sound of his voice was all out of kindness.

He smiled at Dean, stretching to show all his teeth, and a word emerged at last. "...scared?"

Lifting Dean onto his feet, he kept one wrist behind Dean's back and pulled the other in front of him, toward the steel bars.

"What're you doing?" he asked, as Sam walked him toward the waiting dead. Sam pulled back Dean's shirt with his teeth to display a bulge of muscled shoulder, and their mouths watered.

"Don't," he said, mouth against Sam's ear, "Tell them to stop, make them leave."

But Sam ignored him, stretching Dean's arm straight until his fingertips were inches from their grasping hands, shivering with hunger, and then stopped. Sam peeled tore away his left sleeve, mangling the fabric until it hung in pieces.

Sam opened his mouth and Dean's fear floated over his tongue like smoke, sharpened by blood and salt and grass stains and the sour funk of old jizz. He thought of the dead nurse, how her breast had tasted like paper, and pressed his lips to the back of Dean's shoulder, lost in a garden of warm skin.

Dean's chest rose with a soft intake of breath, letting the rest of his shirt fall to puddle around his arm. The inmates asked a question, and Sam replied with a shake of his head, dispatching the majority of the dead for he exit. Dean tried to pull away, but Sam kept his hand extended toward the remaining dead girls. Whatever followed couldn't be worse then Sam's original plan.

Releasing Dean's hand from behind his back, he placed both his hands on the door, curling Dean's fingers around the bars. He stood very close, the dead girls waiting impatiently as Sam traveled to Dean's belt buckle.

_Please don't let them have me._ he thought, as his cock was freed and the dead grinned. But Sam dropped his shirt to the floor and wrapped his left arm around Dean's chest, finger spread wide across his shoulder to keep him in place.

_I deserve this_, he thought, _For letting John take root in my heart. Fuckin' a man in your head is no less a crime._

Gray hands shot thru the bars to latch onto Dean's legs and arms, pressing their cold mouths to him, teeth scraping as they licked the sweat from his skin. He shivered but did not look away, their eyes locked as one girl swallowed his thumb and hollowed her cheeks to suck the salt away.

Sam traced the curve of Dean's bare ass, his eyes gone cold, and then spat into his hand. Dean's lifted on the balls of his feet when Sam drove into him, two fingers spreading him wide, the ring a hard reminder as he buried it to the second knuckle, and for a while they did not move save for the rise and fall of Dean's labored breathing. A slow burn built inside him, and the girls' eyes flicked between his cock and Sam's face.

They begged in demon-speak, hungry for Dean's beautiful mouth-filling cock leaking slick, but Sam gave him another hard stroke and refused them. Over and over he pounded into him, enjoying all the little noises Dean made as the girls hung their tongues over his cock to catch whatever dripped down. Eventually Sam pushed so hard Dean was sandwiched between the two, his erection hanging hard between the bars with cock-thirsty girls on either side and Sam flush behind him.

He was on his toes for so long that soon his knees weakened, hips slapping against steel, his cock a terrible aching weight, but still Sam went faster, until Dean's face burned with need. Bad enough the dead girls were there, lightly tracing his cockhead with one finger until it shown shiny with pre-cum, but soon Sam would have his own cock to think about.

As Sam hit that spot inside that sent sparks down his spine, biting his ear and rutting his own hard cock inside his jeans, Dean had a dark vision of Sam commanding his legion to cross the city and infect the wider world. That Sam would keep him as a warm place to park his cock until everyone in the world was dead, everyone except for Dean, and only until he was alone and thoroughly fucked out would Sam put him out of his misery.

When he tried to look away, Sam took his chin and turned his face toward the girls, so he might see them. With a word, Sam gave the nearest one permission, and Dean cried out as she opened her mouth to take him.

"Don't, I don't...I don't want her," he begged, as she extended the tip of her tongue, "She don't belong to me."

Sam's hand covered his mouth, and he leaned into Dean's face with hooded eyes. "...belong?"

Snatching him away from the door, Sam marched him the length of the room, pushing him into the desk until he bent over double, and left him to retrieve something from a cabinet. The girls shrieked, frozen in despair as their meal was stolen away, but Dean did not have time to look at them. Removing something from the police uniform, Sam stood behind him and crossed both Dean's arms behind his back.

_Oh hell._ he thought, as handcuffs bit into his wrists. From here he had an excellent view of the way he'd came, the long road running north to downtown, to his motorcycle, to his bed, to John. Sam removed everything, his boots, his jeans, all tossed into the corner of the room, with Dean's elbows hard against the desk.

For one awful moment Dean thought Sam was going to unlock the door and let the girls in, when he felt Sam's cold hands trace his hips. _Why's he still got his pants on?_ he thought.

Sam knelt, so damn hungry he could have put a stone on his tongue just to feel it's weight. He kissed the back of Dean's thigh, running his cheek against the smooth, brown muscle until it warmed him. And then pushing Dean's legs apart, he pressed his fanged mouth to his ass, and _sucked_.

Dean rocked on his feet as the touch of teeth, a noise rolling deep in his throat as Sam's tongue curled inside of him, widening him, seeking the taste of another man's cock and finding none. Sam went deeper, turning one hand up to hold Dean's cock, pleased when the boy closed tightly around his tongue. There had been no on else. There was no other claim.

When he was good and wet, Sam wiped his mouth and stood straight, addressing some unseen creatures below the window outside. With Dean a quivering heap beneath him, he undid his belt, and the horde began to march. Dean raised his face, not sure what Sam was doing, when he felt the head of Sam's cock press against his ass.

_Where are they going?_ he thought, as the dead went out the prison gate in single file. Hundreds of them, some in good shape, half-eaten men hauling themselves on their hands, but they did as Sam told.

His teeth sank into his lower lip as Sam pushed, inch by inch agonizing inch, his cock sealed tightly within the plump rim. He strained against the handcuffs, twisting his head around to get a better look, but Sam clutched his hair and turned his eyes toward the window. _Watch_.

Sam spoke, and as his hips came flush with Dean's rounded apple ass, the sky opened up and light forked across the prison yard. The horde raised their hands, ecstatic, and Dean backed away in horror as something underground called back in reply.

Sam held onto his hair, nails biting into his scalp as he thrust hard, the desk rocking beneath him. From far away voices cried out, in that same awful tongue, and Dean whimpered as figures emerged from the distance, their ranks swelling as Sam pumped into him slow and rhythmic as a galley drum, pulling his whole length out before slamming it back so hard he fucked the breath right out of Dean's lungs.

Dean's cock lay on the desk, crushed beneath his flat belly, as the Atlanta dead stumbled over the grass. Crackheads under the bridges, rent girls carrying their heads beneath one arm, gangland victims from the trunks of cars, Civil War heroes atop their boney steeds. They stumbled past the the church van calling out "FRIDAY NIGHT REVIVAL". Sam called their names, and they waited.

The sun sank below the horizon, and still Sam was not satisfied with his army, slowly pounding into Dean as new faces arrived. Dean's gun lay a few inches away, shivering every time his thighs struck the table.

_Gotta get thru to him_. he thought.

"Not...scary...enough." he hissed.

Pulling out, Sam flipped him over on his back, his face a mask. But Dean did not fight, letting his legs part for him as Sam drove in a second time.

"Sammy, listen to me," he whispered, putting his mouth to his ear, "I been where you're at. I dunno what you brought with you, but whatever it is, hold it close and don't let her take it."

Something passed over Sam's face, like heat lightning, but faded as quickly. Dean pressed on.

"When the vampire took me down, all I had was...was a photo of you. Weren't much, but it my thread thru the maze, and it took me home."

Sam studied him, and suddenly they paused, joined but swollen hard and both very close to the end.

Dean's voice shook. "Don't you know you're the only good thing pinning me to this earth?"

Tears welled in Sam's eyes, and everything returned to him in a rush. "Dean?"

With a great sucking lungfull, all feeling exploded into his body at once, and Sam toppled in a final heave into Dean's body, face crumpled in a desperate kiss as his body arched over and snapped into Dean, pumping him full of cold seed.

Dean wrapped his legs around his waist, sliding his cock along Sam's belly and urging him on as his own end came, his breath hitching as he was fucked so hard the handcuffs bruised his back, their bones grinding together until all the papers were knocked over and one of the desk legs snapped at the joint. Aftershocks ran up Sam's spine as Dean milked him, and unable to pull out he rocked into him until his cock was wrung dry.

When it was over, Dean twisted with his hips and brought Sam to the floor, straddling him over the city map.

"Sammy?" he asked, as Sam drifted in the jizzfog, "Still with me?"

Outside, hooves stomped into the gravel, and Sam's eyes sprang open. He looked at Dean, but did not see him.

_Fuck._ he thought, as Sam pushed him aside and got dressed.

"Sammy," he pleaded, rubbing the raw grooves once Sam uncuffed him, "What are you gonna do with these guys?"

Sam tightened his belt and smoothed his hair, his back to Dean. There was one more cabinet left unopened, and Sam reached out for it.

Dean stared at the pair of cutlasses, the true love of some prison guard in Redneck Heaven right now, and his eyes slid along the blade as Sam sheathed one in his belt and offered up the other to him, handle first. The sky was a dusty rose now, pinking the steel, and when Dean did not speak, Sam bent down to kiss him.

"...fight?"

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	57. Make Love Not War

**Note: Sam's soul was stolen by a very powerful vampire named Bonnie Furcoat. Dean re-animated his body with a mix of zombie/vampire blood, and now Sam is raising the dead using a dialect of Hell native to zombies.**

**Bonnie Furcoat hides in an elevator full of dead bodies.**

**Hotsie is a vampire who built a space rocket launch pad, Peaches is another vampire.**

**John was planning to free the zombie horde and lead them toward the vampires, but the zombies found his explosives.**

* * *

><p>"Where the hell have you been?"<p>

Dean glanced at John and almost lost his nerve. "The zombies are headed downtown," he said, showing him the package of explosives, "They chucked this at me. The plan's a bust."

John glanced at the city map on the wall. "Headed where downtown?"

"Well, it's just a guess, but..." he lied, pointing at a green square a few mile away, "Remember that report about the vampire making all the east side visits?"

John remembered.

"Bonnie Furcoat made a failsafe, in case the army should send any hunters her way," said Dean, swallowing nervously, not liking Sam's plan at all, "She vampirized the zoo."

* * *

><p>Bonnie Furcoat opened her eyes. Grabbing the nearest corpse, she pulled herself to the surface of the elevator and emerged, wet and red, and surveyed her dead within the car. Dawn was three hours away. She had to act fast.<p>

* * *

><p>Sam nodded, and a hundred dead clambered up the sides of Hotsie's rocket tower, the topmost men using car doors for shields against whatever the vampires lobbed at them. The crew leader sang a climbing song in demon-speak, and as the steel began to complain under their weight, Sam wished Dean were here to make a "death metal" joke.<p>

Underneath that was the sound of industrial fans circulating Hotsie's sub-level methane supply. The smell would have killed a living man.

The tower swayed in the moonlight, a few zombies falling into the mud on the way up and trying again with their good limbs. Eventually the vampires noticed and began heaving steel beams at them, but the numbers were against them, like a spider fighting an ant colony.

They tossed Hotsie down, a mile above the earth, her scream growing like someone slowly turning a radio knob. Sam took two steps back, and caught her in his outspread arms.

"Gonna fuckin' kill you boy!" she shouted, struggling against him.

He smiled, a mouthful of shark teeth, and she recoiled.

"That didn't take long," she said, a little disappointed as she stood on her feet, "Who done it?"

He had forgotten Bonnie Furcoat's name. He'd forgotten his own hours ago. All names were abstractions now, Dean's the metal band about his finger, John the smell of gunpowder, and Bonnie...he balled his fists and mimicked shrugging into a jacket.

"She's awake," she said, touching his face, "You stupid, stupid bastard, whatchu do that for?"

He pointed to his heart, and she understood.

"I'm sorry. But I ain't fightin' wichu. Go ahead, tear it all down," she said, waving at the tower, "I got all da time ah need."

A wicked glitter sparked in one eye as he looped an arm around her waist, his hand sliding down her spine. She studied him down her nose. "A fuck ain't gonna change my mind boy."

Scooping her over his shoulder, he signaled for the dead men to stand at ease. They were many, but as monsters they wouldn't last long in a fight, and he needed some big guns to bring in later.

Peaches had been much harder to subdue, but settled soon enough, finishing on top with her pink hair bouncing over her tits. The wind lifted the hem of her dress as Hotsie clawed his back, black lace tickling his mouth.

Then, pushing open the door, they both disappeared into the Love Manufacturing building.

* * *

><p>Dean stopped at the end of the hallway facing the elevator and cracked his knuckles, the cutlass slung tight against his back. The 'up' button glowed red.<p>

The telemarketer woke up first, translucent skin stretched over his bloated belly as he punched a hole in the plaster and wrenched a plank loose. The others followed suit, maybe twenty in all armed with granite chunks and table legs.

The office workers launched themselves all at once, mouths stretched wide and gurgling like plugged toilets, and Dean placed his hand on the pummel.

* * *

><p>Roseland Cemetery was on the way to the zoo. Where Oakland Cemetery hid behind a high stone wall and carefully manicured junipers, here the grass was higher than the gravestones, wedged between the interstate and an exit ramp.<p>

A dead man, his teeth knocked out from a life of bum-fighting, lay by a soldier's grave and turned to Sam.

He had learned the dialect of Hell. "Are you a cop?"

"No."

"Cuz you can't make me leave," he said, "It's law, you can't arrest somebody for sleeping in a graveyard."

Sam touched the ground gently, tree roots pulsing with purple light for an instant, and spoke the words.

"They will not sleep tonight."

His horse waited for him, it's entrails tangled in the weeds, and climbing on it's bare back he heard the first coffin split open and hands groping in the air.

* * *

><p>Dean dragged the tip of his cutlass on the floor, not feeling the pain yet. The last one convulsed, trying to remember how to swallow, until he kicked it's mostly severed head into the wall, gore spattering a motivational poster. He pressed his palm against a cut between two ribs, but there was so much blood he couldn't assess the damage.<p>

The elevator went ding and opened on darkness. He bent his head into the empty shaft.

The utility door on the elevator had torn away. Inside, the bodies all looked the same, devolved into rubbery red creatures punching the car ceiling and a few groping at his boots thru the small opening.

He sheathed the cutlass on his back. A single grenade would have turned them all into salsa. John had given him twelve, and he set those aside as well.

He clutched his heart, where the unhappy memory of Sam would always be, and jumped in feet first.

* * *

><p>Sam raised his cutlass, the steel gleaming in the moonlight, and the first company of undead stampeded into the zoo. The giraffes plucked the heads from their necks like grapes. Koalas went straight for the eyes. Spider crabs the size of trashcan lids embraced their attackers and sank their fangs until they hit bone.<p>

When a trumpeting echoed from within the trees, Sam's horse reared on it's hind legs. A long gray nose emerged from the shadows, curling around a dead man's neck and squeezing until he popped like champagne. It spoke to Sam in a voice so low he could feel it humming in the soles of his feet, and went something like_ Fuck off White Boy._

The soldiers howled, and Sam howled back, a grin splitting his face. He jumped the fence, loosing the reins with both arms spread wide, and clashed steel against ivory.

* * *

><p>Dean dragged the tip of his cutlass on the floor, not feeling the pain yet. The last one convulsed, trying to remember how to swallow, until he kicked it's mostly severed head into the wall, gore spattering a motivational poster. He pressed his palm against a cut between two ribs, but there was so much blood he couldn't assess the damage.<p>

The elevator went ding and opened on darkness. He bent his head into the empty shaft.

The utility door on the elevator had torn away. Inside, the bodies all looked the same, devolved into rubbery red creatures punching the car ceiling and a few groping at his boots thru the small opening.

He sheathed the cutlass. A single grenade would have turned them all into salsa. John had given him twelve, and he set those aside as well.

He clutched his heart, where the unhappy memory of Sam would always be, and jumped in feet first.

* * *

><p>When the zoo was cleared, Sam surveyed the survivors. They would need to eat soon.<p>

He pointed his horse toward the city center, thumbing the ring on his finger, and kicked it into a gallop.

* * *

><p>The elevator went ding. The doors parted and Dean stood beneath a cone of light, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, bodies falling in a limp heap onto the basement floor.<p>

"Well hey there sunshine bear."

Bonnie Furcoat sat atop a sun bear, it's vampire fangs white in the gloom. Her feet dripped a red trail on the linoleum.

"You got somethin' of mine," he said, the chain warm about his waist, "You give it back now, and maybe I'll give you a headstart before the other vampires get here."

He should be dead. He'd seen the police videos, she was near speed of light fast. But her face moved a fraction, considering his words. He felt the hairs move on the back of his neck, and suddenly he and the bear were alone.

"How the fuck..." he said, spinning around and looking up inside the elevator, moonlight streaming thru the top, "...does she do that?"

He got a mouthful of flannel suit as the bear rushed him into the car, dead office workers cushioning the blow. He managed to parry the first few strikes, but it was too dark to do more than guess it's direction. About the time he reached for the cutlass, the doors shut and the elevator began to move.

"Oh bitch, really?!"

He carved off a bit of bear shoulder, ducking as claws sailed over his head. The elevator stuttered for a minute, bodies clogging the entrance, but eventually it closed on them with a gloopy crunch and they were headed up.

Punching it between the eyes, he bought himself enough time to climb thru the opening on top, crouched in one corner as a claw popped out and snagged his ankle. He grit his teeth, his boot filling with blood, and hacked at it with one eye toward the top. It wasn't a tall building.

"Uh..." he muttered, when the elevator stop just shy of the roof, the gears shuddering.

The bear reached out one last time, winding it's arm around Dean's leg and holding on with the Devil's strength, right as the brakes gave out.

He didn't have time to scream. One second his feet were on solid ground, and the next the bear was scrabbling at him, teeth gnashing in the open door frame as it plummetted into shadows. The world turned ninty degrees, and he found himself floating on thin air.

He rocked gently back and forth, his hands scraping the wall, and the elevator crashed far away.

It took his eyes a while to adjust. Two boots dug into the ceiling beams, gray hands holding onto the chain at Dean's waist. Sam bent his knees, until their faces were inches apart, and for a moment Dean swayed dreamily in the dark, his lips parting in a gentle smile.

They pushed thru a vent to the roof, Sam's hand still on the chain. Once he got his first lungful of fresh air, the pain finally hit Dean and he fell to his knees.

"She's...she's still out there," he said faintly, as Sam took him into his arms, "I couldn't get it."

Sam tilted Dean's chin up with one finger, his head wreathed in stars, and said nothing. Down on the street, Sam's army was pulling apart the contents of the elevator shaft, blood splattering the walls in sticky ropes, as Dean closed his eyes and lost himself in true love's kiss. The boys held each other for a long time, or only a minute, it was hard to tell.

"Yeah I know," said Dean, tracing the curve of Sam's cheek, "The night's not over yet."

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	58. Everybody Must Get Stoned

**Notes: Vampires can drain souls for their power. While all the vampires in this story have many souls inside them, Bonnie took the lion's share and is scary powerful. Remove the souls, remove the power. **

**Bonnie drained Sam's soul, and now he is undead.**

**Bonnie the vampire built a garden entirely out of electroluminescent flowers, which means they are glass and metal constructions that run off of solar power and glow at night.**

**Hotsie and Totsie the vampires built a rocket, heading for outer space.**

**Sam is now leading an army of zombies to kill Bonnie Furcoat.**

* * *

><p>A dead man lifted the first stone and struck Bonnie Furcoat in the ear. That part of the city had been under construction before the zombie attack, and soon she disappeared beneath a rain of loose bricks. Car alarms went off whenever one missed.<p>

"Why doesn't she run?" said Dean. Sam said nothing, unhooking the diamond stud out of an ear before eating it. The horde closed in, until the bricks came up to her knees.

"She thinks she can wait them out." Dean whipped around to see Peaches sitting cross-legged in a window frame. She had hickies all over the top of her chubby tits that Dean didn't recall seeing last night.

"Can she?"

"Yes," she said, smiling at Sam, "But not if you let me yank out her batteries."

Dean snatched her from her perch, dangling her upside down by the ankle. "One of those batteries is mine."

"Let go of me!" she screached, scratching at his boots. Her mumu flipped down, her cunt in tact despite two visits from Sam in the past twenty-four hours, and Dean allowed himself to ponder on the myth of vampires as rejuvenating virgins.

He pulled a knife from his belt and set it against her big toe, the nail painted black with little pink hearts. "You bring her down, fine. Afterward, bring Sam what's his."

"Or what?" she said, mouth climbing up one side of her face. She twisted her toe into the blade, black blood dripping on Dean's hand. He smiled back.

"Or this."

He flicked the blade over the horde, a single drop of blood hitting the pavement nearby. Twenty stopped what they were doing to drop on all fours and sniff it, their fingers scooping out concrete like mashed potatoes in search of more. Peaches faltered.

"Now," he said, standing her upright, "Dawn's in two hours. You still planning to leave town?"

She looked up at the stars, then east where her midnight garden lay. "Yeah, the twins are waiting by the launch pad," she said, putting a finger on his hand, "Even if he gets his soul back, Sam won't be himself ya know."

He studied her with hooded eyes. "That don't mean I'm coming with you instead."

"I mean it. Ya put it back in now, with the monster cocktail in his blood, it's like pouring water in a cracked glass," she said, dropping her hand, "It may not hold."

The bricks come slower now, one every second or two like popcorn that's nearly ready. She smelled like the kudzu flowers in her garden, lush and purple as prison wine. He cupped her cheek and flattened his knife against the side of her throat, tracing a black vein with his thumb.

"I gotta take something to the others," he lied, "To show I killed you."

She nodded, and covered his brown hand with her small white one to guide it. A lock of pink hair a foot long came free, and he looped between his fingers, watching blonde hair grow back in it's place.

"You gonna take anything with you?" he asked, tucking the hair inside his jacket.

"I got enough for a second garden. By next year I'll have the dark side of the moon lit like Vegas," she said, her face very soft, "Sing me something nice once in a while? I'll hear it from there."

She leaned into his hand, a thousand ghosts behind her eyes, soon to be floating thru space. He swallowed and smiled at his boots.

"I heard there's a mountain somewhere, real hard climb. So high you can't hardly breathe. But once you get to the top, you walk around a bit, and they got a bar, really good one," he said, "Maybe, if you ain't busy, we can meet in the middle some night."

She snorted. "Where's that s'posed to be? Thailand?"

He pulled her in close, one arm around her waist. "Heaven."

* * *

><p>Bonnie's jaw had been knocked clean off. She laughed when Peaches approached her, or some approximation of it, air huffing out as her pink pharynx contracted open and shut. A dead gym teacher, whistle dragging, unable to straighten his spine, took an experimental lick of Peaches' bare foot.<p>

"Happy now?" asked Peaches, standing over her friend, "Damn but I always gotta be here to clean your mess."

The boys stood nearby, Sam indifferent while Dean couldn't keep his left foot still. _Why didn't she run?_ he wondered again, _Bonnie just stood there and took it._

"Should've stayed asleep." she said, bending down to lay a hand over Bonnie's heart.

Sam blinked, head half-turned as if he'd heard something. Dean looked over.

"Sammy what is it?"

A moment later the twins arrive, their toes pointed straight down and hovering an inch above the earth. Hotsie pointed at Dean.

"You have to go."

"Why? What the fuck are you doing here-"

A cloud of dust erupted beneath Bonnie, the concrete cracking in all directions as a queer light shined in Peaches' mouth, lighting her teeth blue from within. She hunched over, frozen as Bonnie's hand latched tight around her wrist. A cold wave knocks the dead on their backs, and Sam crumples against Dean's shoulder.

"Sammy?" he asks, shaking him until his gray eyes open languidly, "The fuck is she doing?"

Bonnie lifted Peaches off the ground, both of them glowing so bright Dean had to look away. Peaches eyes turned white and then sunk deep into her skull. Hotsie tried to separate them, and power arched over them and set a nearby car on fire.

"This would look better," said Dean, tossing Sam over his shoulder, "From the roof, wouldn't you say?"

He jogged around the train station, dumping Sam on the grass to heave a stone thru a car window and unlock the door. A streetlight turned on as he hotwired the engine to life, humming loudly as it got brighter and brighter, then popped in a shower of glass.

"Okey dokey," he said, smiling as he strapped Sam into the passenger seat, "We're just gonna get a few miles between us and the ladies, and maybe tomorrow, when they've settled their differences..."

Sam's head lolled on his neck, looking so far gone that Dean his face in his hands and set his voice low. "We're getting outta here," he whispered, pressing his mouth to his, over and over, "Don't go anywhere, please..."

He didn't stop kissing until Sam responded, one hand curled in Dean's hair. A power cable fritzed and snapped free, whipping across the street over their heads. Sam said nothing, staring at something in the rearview mirror, and Dean twisted around in his seat to look.

"Fucksticks." He gunned the motor and turned the wheel with one hand, tossing his sawed-off into Sam's lap.

"Roll down the window Sammy," he said, as the horde turned the corner, loping straight for them, "You're riding shotgun."

TBC


	59. Drift

**Notes: Zombie!Sam in Atlanta during a zombie invasion. Sam's soul was stolen by a vampire, but momentarily resurfaces during prolonged contact with Dean.**

* * *

><p>A pack of girl scouts leapt from the underbrush, making Dean jump the median and land the car roof-down. The airbag deployed, and pumping his shotgun he shot out the windshield and reloaded in time to put the first scout down. They weighed next to nothing, folding inwards at the waist when his aim was true.<p>

"Fuck..." he muttered. His hearing was shot, a high whine over the throb of blood in his temples. Undoing his seatbelt, he tapped Sam on the shoulder. "Let's move."

Sam stood, glass crunching underfoot, and took in their surroundings. His eyes settled on something and he motioned to Dean.

"The hell we gonna find in there?" The parking garage was fifteen stories high with possibly more below street level, a half-eaten corpse slumped in the ticket booth. A taxi had t-boned a cargo van in the entrance, and it would take an hour or more to make a crawlspace.

"How we supposed to get in?"

Sam drew a circle in the air, and they jogged around the block, where a fire escape zig-zagged across the back wall. Dean counted the number of steps to the top, already feeling the ache in his neck from the car crash.

"Don't make me climb that."

Dean stood in a patch of sunlight, blood dried down one side of his face, jeans all over grass-stained and torn at the knees, lips parted as he considered their next move. To Sam he looked every inch the roadhouse angel.

Something stirred in him, and taking Dean's hand he turned him on his heel, catching Dean's lower lip between his teeth. Dean breathed hard thru his nose and grabbed the boy's hips until he was standing on his boots, adrenaline buzzing in his veins. Meanwhile, squirrels gathered round to see if the Girl Scouts tasted as good as their wares.

Breaking the kiss, Sam smiled and looped Dean's arms around his neck. And just as the horde rounded the corner, Sam dug his fingers into the brickwork and began to climb.

Dean piggy-backed the whole way, glancing back every few seconds to take aim and send a few followers flying. They weren't as fast as Sam and hadn't bothered to spread out, so when one fell it usually took three or four more with it on the trip down. Sam's entire musculature adapted as he ascended, bones cracking beneath the skin, his shoulders rounding out inside his shirt.

"Here," said Dean, handing Sam some grenades when they reached the top, "Betcha I can hit that parking meter."

But the horde was already retreating, crowding around a door Dean had not noticed.

"Those lock from the inside," he said, smirking, "Good luck with that ya ugly-"

Ten dead lifted a car and heaved it at the door. It glanced off the steel frame, but they kept at it until it buckled and they could squeeze thru.

"Fuck! Did you see where that leads?" he asked, bending over the guardrail, "We gotta find another way down Sammy."

He looked over his shoulder and found himself alone. "Sam?"

Tire smoke kicked up one row over, and Dean drew his gun in the headlight glare of a black Mercedes. A pair of tiny American flags waved from the top. It pealed to a stop in a neat ninety degree turn and Sam emerged from the driver's side door, the other door having been torn off and crimped back into place like the edge of a piecrust.

Dean slid behind the wheel, breathing in the new leather. A bundle of cut flowers wrapped in paper had been left on the passenger seat, and Sam held them in his lap. As the first zombies stumbled out, Dean looked down at the bouquet and smiled.

"Those for my grave?"

He hit the first zombie without looking up. It took ten more before the bulletproof glass began to splinter, their mouths stretched in a silent scream, each body a muffled thunk as he ran them down. He pressed play on the CD player, and bounced in his seat as the horde treated him to a production of "Oklahoma".

_"Ooooooooooooo _WHAM_ -klahoma where the wind comes sweepin' down the plain_

_And the wavin' wheat _THOOM_ can sure smell sweet _THWACK

_When the wind comes right behind the _BUDDA BUDDA BUDDA BANG_"_

Dean went in reverse and twisted around in his seat for an undead Hooters waitress, her fake tits crushed against the window. Sam lay a hand on Dean's knee, fingers spread and looking past the windshield with an absent expression, Dean felt his dick jump. Once he shook her off, Dean looked around the garage.

"I think we're good on this level-" he began, just as Sam put the car into Park and buried his face in his throat. His right hand curled around Dean's jaw to hold him close, seeking out the tender flesh beneath his jaw, and though Dean struggled at first, eventually he softened, falling against the headrest.

"...now?" he croaked, and shivered as Sam bit his ear.

From outside, fists welted the steel folding door to the exit. Sam climbed onto Dean's lap, sucking at his mouth, crushing the flowers with his boot until the whole car smelled like a funeral.

Dean's cock was already thick and dark, twitching in Sam's hand as he slicked it with a gob of spit. He kicked his jeans down, hanging off one leg with his boots planted on either side of the driver's chair while the wet tip of Dean's cock lay against his ass.

_Last night on earth,_ Dean thought. He rolled down the window and lifted his gun, as Sam remembered another word.

"...kiss?"

Dean closed his eyes. "No," he said, taking aim at the control panel, "It's 'kill'."

The panel exploded as the door went up in a rush of noise. Dean wrenched the steering wheel all the way to one side, the wheels turned right while the car went left, and as Sam impaled himself on his cock he hit the brakes and they were drifting down a tight spiral rampway crowded with the scavenging dead.

They crunched at the impact and tumbled over the side in the lower levels, teeth glimmering in the headlights as their heads rebounded off the glass. A few slid over the roof, but their nails could find no purchase on the polished chrome. Sealed against the outside world, the only sounds were Dean's ragged breathing and the indecent slap of skin to skin. Dean's hips twisted in the seat, aching to get the last inch inside as Sam tortured him with a slow, wet squeeze.

He gripped the wheel, barely able to see over Sam's shoulder, when he clipped a truck fender five floors down and spun out, and all of sudden they were driving backwards, Sam tracing the line of his jaw with hard wet kisses and dragging tightly up the length of his cock like he had all day.

"Fuck baby boy..."

The car had maybe an two inch gap between it and the wall, and every time Sam bottomed out on his cock he saw sparks in the side mirror. His legs shook from the strain, and as the more dead hit, Sam sped up to match, until every fatality was marked with a strangled noise from Dean.

Something clunked under the hood, a survivor having gotten it's hands on the under-carriage, and Dean watched in horror as a clump of brake cables landed on the ground and sped away. He grabbed the handbrake and desperately began to pump it up and down, though the car showed little sign of slowing. Sam dug into his shoulders, marking the skin, and and as his cock swelled inside the boy Dean felt him smile against his neck.

They were winding close to street level now, and the dead piled thick and fast. Dean could barely make out Sam's face in the dark, but something glittered in Sam's eyes as he drew up, whiskers of light trailing in the gloom as he swayed. He surfaced in that last moment, really seeing.

"...Dean?"

Their eyes locked, the earth rushing up to meet them.

"I'm here," he whispered, right before they struck a school bus and cleared thru the windshield in a tangle of limbs, "Don't let go."

TBC


	60. Great Gig in the Sky

**Notes: Zombie!Sam in Atlanta, during a zombie invasion. Sam's soul was stolen by the vampire Bonnie Furcoat, who drained the souls of many people for the power boost. **

**John is hunting with a Navy SEAL named Harold.**

**Dean and Sam were chained together on the Senator's orders when they entered Atlanta, and Dean still has a length of chain locked around his waist.**

* * *

><p>The zombies took forever to burn. John lifted a tin cup of water from the bottom of the pyre, dropping in a scoop of instant coffee and watching the grounds swish round the bottom. A blackened skeleton open it's mouth to hiss at him, but he told it to hush and it lay back down.<p>

"Better go kill that last one upstairs."

"Sir, there's no one in the house."

"You think I'd guess?"

"No sir."

"And Harold?"

"Yes sir?"

"Call Washington," he said, tossing him a satellite phone, "Passcode is the Senator's birthday."

"What should I tell her?"

"That the job's done," he said, mouth twisting on the memory of his last conversation with that wretched woman, "And to send a helicopter for my gunshot wound."

"Are you shot sir?"

John did not look at him. He stared at his reflection in the mug and imagined him and Dean in the hills, the honest smell of woodsmoke, the conversations they might have had under the stars. Then he blew on his coffee and it went away.

"Just make the call."

* * *

><p>Dean woke to three shadows crouching over him. He felt for his .45 but it must have bounced away in the fall. He didn't think anything was broken, but he wouldn't know until he stood up.<p>

"What, you wanna party out here in the street?" he said, lip curling as a Girl Scout licked blood off his sleeve. Another girl egged her on, and then the top of her head disappeared in a spray of buckshot. The other two looked up, and ran for the safety of shadows.

Dean shielded his eyes as a fourth shadow emerged from behind an emergency light. The white horse arched it's neck, smoke curling from the rider's shotgun. Sam did not dismount.

_Fuck me._ Dean thought, as Sam slung the gun across his back and held out his hand. Dean mounted up, wrapping his arms around Sam's waist and measuring the night sky.

"Sun'll be up soon," he said, "I hope you got a plan for Bonnie cuz I'm fresh out."

The horse tossed it's head, and Sam said nothing.

All of the hotels were skyscrapers, but only one of them was round, and that one was lined in glass from street to roof. It was black in places where the fighting had shot out a few window panes, like an old man with missing teeth. Bonnie stood at the entrance, a twin city reflected behind her with ten thousand souls in it, and when she brushed the hair from her face they moved in tandem with her.

The boys swung off to the ground. The other vampires lay curled on the ground, their eyes blank.

"It's done," said Dean, fingering his knife, "You gonna fight, or run and hide before the sun comes out?"

Bonnie's face was stone. She raised her hand, and Dean started as he saw, amongst the ghost mob in the mirrored hotel, Sam's hand rise with her. The other vampire's testimonies came back to him, why a vampire would want to build a midnight garden, why a vampire would want to build a rocket and seek the peace of interplanetary darkness.

_Because fuck the sun._

Her hand glowed, and a spot emerged in the sky. Dean wasn't sure if it were growing or simply getting closer, but it ate everything, the moon, the clouds, stretching from east to west until the city lay beneath a black dome, with Bonnie as the only source of light. The air dropped ten degrees, and Dean shivered.

And then he was on his knees, her hand over his heart as something was being pulled from him. She was incandescent with power, more souls then she knew what to do with, but Dean had a hidden beauty tucked beneath the hard shell, and she had to have the pair. He saw Sam over her shoulder in the mirror, limned in white light, watching impassively.

He looked up the Sam behind him, the dead one. "Please..."

Both Sams locked eyes for a moment, the real world meeting the unknowable. When Sam had called forth the dead to take back the city, he'd drawn on the strength of knowing he had one foot in either side of the waking world, that a voice tethered his heart to the promise of home. Leading an army of the blessed was no different.

Dean's plea resonated in the souls, echoing forever and onward until the word lost all meaning and only the rhythm was discernible, and Sam raised his arms. The souls raised their arms.

Bonnie, her eyes so black Dean could see himself in them, raised her arms.

"Ha!" he croaked, as she stood prisoner before her own hostages. She twisted in place as the darkness receded, fangs out and hair lashing about, but the Sam in the mirror looked on in cold silence. Their arms went higher and higher, as if to clap their hands in prayer, the city flooding with color from the morning sun. And for the first time since she became undead, Bonnie Furcoat saw her shadow.

Dean looked away. She burned quickly, as did the other vampires, and only screamed once. The sound bounced away between the buildings, and then nothing. When he looked up, the dawn had reduced her to a grease stain, and Dead Sam was nowhere to be found.

"Sammy?" he said, spinning around. The horse was still there, stamping at the concrete and sniffing for it's next meal. Then Dean saw the hotel and his mouth fell open.

Dean couldn't see himself because it was not a mirror. It was a window. Clouds edged in a sulfur haze opened on eternal daybreak. Souls slid up the surface of the glass, twisting away from him and dissolving into creatures of flight. Not birds. Not angels. But free nonetheless. For a while Sam did not move, watching the earth as the others raced to empty themselves into the sun. Eventually though, his feet lifted on nothing, and with a gentle tug he began to rise.

"No..." said Dean, reaching out to touch the glass. The city was a wasteland around him, columns of black smoke and the stink of old meat. He couldn't take it alone.

Dean followed him, his eyes welling as Sam turned his face away. He bent his head and whispered.

"Who'll take this chain off me?"

When no answer came, something broke in Dean. He'd come so far. And with tears running down his filthy face, he pulled back his fist and slammed it into the building until a hairline fissure the length of Heaven stretched toward Sam and lightning cracked between them. All the other souls had gone. The building lit up, a gust of wind blowing the hair back from Sam's face as he turned to recognize Dean, and Dean shouted something at him over the noise, and Sam listened.

And then Dean was alone, staring at his own reflection. He removed his fist, shuddering at the pain and taking a moment to pull the slivers from between his knuckles. When he looked back, he noticed the door. Where there had been none before.

He took a step closer. It was a high steel door with a steel knob and the words NO TRESPASSING stamped in red letters. Someone knocked on the other side, three times.

_Sam won't be himself ya know_, Peaches had warned him, _It's like pouring water in a cracked glass. It may not hold._

The knocks came again, but Dean did not move. Sam had been so beautiful in that mirror, at his best. Dean palmed the knob, barely turning it an inch, and it clicked open for him.

"Sammy?"

Someone stood in the shadows. The stairwell behind him had another door one flight up, and Dean saw it close softly. He put out his hand, a little smile of encouragement as he beckoned, and a body fell into his arms. Dry and stiff and dusty as any body that had been dead forty-eight hours.

Tears slipped from Dean's eyes. "Oh baby boy, what happened to you?"

* * *

><p>John looked at the bullet in his hand, the one he'd used for a magic trick the other day. The memory of that kiss still warmed it. He loaded it into the chamber and pushed the gun into his waistband.<p>

He came round to find Dean sitting on the curb, elbows on his knees, field stripping his gun over and over. A crate stood a few feet away, knocking from side to side every now and then.

"What happened?"

Dean slipped the safety in place. "Sam's alive."

John eyed the box. It tilted to the left and fell with a meaty slap inside.

"He died. Then I summoned him back, but," Dean continued, his voice catching, "I think I waited too long."

He looked up at John, all the beauty gone from his eyes, and his shoulders began to shake.

"I can't kill him," he said, breaking down, "I don't know what do."

John's arms hung by his side as Dean cried into his shoulder. He was feverish from sitting outside, their bodies fitting together easily, the urge to hold him and kiss him and tell him he'd never need die like a hot needle in his heart.

John turned his face slowly, afraid of spooking the boy. He had a truck hidden away, they could get lost, hide off the grid for a few months. Make love beneath the stars.

The box thumped. John had the one bullet, it had to go somewhere. He tried to see himself with that life, and closed his eyes against such a half desperate dream. He was not a wandering man at heart.

"You have to go."

Dean looked up, his eyes raw. "Why?"

"Cuz I'm about to tell a bunch of Federal officers that you didn't like my orders, shot me, and went AWOL with Sam here."

"I wouldn't-"

"You will."

He took the boy's face in his hands and pressed his mouth to his, to shut him up and tell him things he had no words for. They didn't have a lot of time.

"Follow the east train line to the break in the fence, there's a truck parked outside the city limits with food, bullets, and cash. Drive to Empire, Nevada. Ask for Colonel D- and say I sent you. He's run the Kennel a long time now-"

"The monster jail?"

"It's an old Indian burial ground. A holy place. Sam might get better there."

"Why you gotta lie about me to the Feds?"

"With my testimony, you'll get off with jail-time where the Senator can't touch you."

"I don't care about her."

"The Senator sent you on this job to die. If she finds you alive she'll kill you slow," he said, his voice low, "And make sure I'm around to watch. "

"I ain't scared of dying."

John smiled, pressing his gun into Dean's hand. When John was airlifted later that day, he dug the bullet out of his side with his nails. The nurse doped him pretty hard afterward, but even asleep he kept it balled up in his fist. He didn't want it getting mixed up with the others.

"I didn't ask if you were."

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	61. Monster Request

**Monster request:** The next chapter we're gonna really see re-souled Sam (and what he's like in the sack), BUT

we're also starting the Boys on another big adventure, still in the Deep South.

So, if ya'll have any ideas/requests for monsters, go for it. The Fucktopus chapter was based on a reader prompt ("sea creature" I believe)

I'd like to thank my readers. I've never watched Walking Dead or The Vampire Diaries, even though I live where both shows are filmed, so it was fun writing this story arc without having to think "but wait, did they do THIS in the show?"


	62. The Kennel

**Notes: Sam is detoxing from injesting monster blood.**

* * *

><p>It was way too hot to jerk off this time of day. Normally he'd wait until Sam was asleep, but every time Dean looked over in the dark Sam'd be staring at him, eyes empty in the moonlight.<p>

Dean wiped his hand on his shirt and watched the shadows of clouds slide over the Nevada mountains, feet dangling off the edge of the tailgate. John was groping nurses three thousand miles away, or tied to a chair reducing some Black Ops interrogator to tears. Dean wasn't sure which he wanted to see more. When the wind settled, he grabbed a water bottle, folded the magazine in his back pocket, and set out.

The field was empty save for their truck and a mesquite post he'd stolen from a fence a week ago and driven deep into the ground. Rope looped thru the top with more rope knotted around the base and staked into the earth with rebar.

For a minute he couldn't see his own hand for the dust in the air, kicking up so he had to cover his eyes, and he stopped to regain his sense of direction. Then the air cleared, and Dean found him some ways away, slowly fading into the world like a Polaroid.

Sam knelt, his wrists bound at the end of thirty feet of rope, his shadow long and thin. His bluejeans were brown at the knees, his eyes pinpoints in the sun's glare. As Dean approached, Sam slowly dipped his head until his chin hit the ground.

Dean touched the length of leather hanging off his belt and smiled.

"You gonna take some water?"

Sam remained still, his chest rising and falling as Dean circled round him to the post.

"We'll have some breakfast and I'll read to you."

Dean set the magazine and water down, and doubled the rope in his left fist. He pulled his belt loose.

"Ain't gonna hurt you."

He'd taken apart a fan for the slim steel rod inside, six inches long and perforated on both ends. After some work with a Swiss Army knife he'd attached it to his belt with his bootlaces. He'd spent all night trying it on himself to make sure it fit.

Sam drew in at Dean's touch, a gentle hand on the back of his neck. Dean squatted until their faces were level.

"Pretty sure the magazine was Harold's. The nudies are torn out and all's left are car ads and how to pick up strangers. You'd think the Senator bugged every blade of grass in America to keep score of his bad habits."

Dean studied the scrubland, his hair bending in the wind. "Probably she'd know it just looking at his face."

Sam half-listened, eyes intent on the rope in Dean's fist. It had sat in the back of the truck for years, getting rained on and mended with ductape. He eyed a weak spot in the braiding for a second and followed Dean's gaze.

"Maybe we'll take a walk later?"

He wasn't even looking at Sam, but once the boy relaxed, Dean wheeled and lept onto his back and crossed his wrists over his skinny chest, all in one motion.

Sam bucked, lifting them both off the ground with his hips and trying to turn his body, but Dean wrapped his legs around his waist and dropped them both in the dust.

"Go ahead and kick," he muttered in his ear, "I got all day."

Dean dug in his heels, both of them rutting long grooves in the earth as Sam fought to escape. The mesquite post creaked under Sam's strength, his bare chest floured in dust, hair sticking to his neck. As he looked up, his eyes turned from blue to gray to an eerie silver that made Dean hard all over again.

There'd be time for that later. Yanking him by the hair, Dean pitched back so Sam's body stretched in an arch over him, and slid the bit between his teeth.

"Hold...still..." he said, winching it hard behind Sam's head. He spent a minute with his arms around Sam when it was done, waiting for his breath to slow. His cock scraped inside his jeans, his heart hammering, but when his hand strayed, tracing the line of the boy's collarbone, Sam twisted away.

Dean staggered to his feet and went to fetch the water. Sam flattened himself on the ground, breathing hard.

"Get up."

Sam looked up thru his bangs, then licked his lipsand closed his eyes, leaning in on his forehead. Dean grabbed the belt and hauled him back, the open bottle next to Sam's mouth.

"Drink."

He tried pouring a little down the side of his face, but Sam he dropped his eyes and would have no more to do with him. Dean's lip curled.

"Well if you got no more use for me..."

He walked back to the truck, running his hands thru his hair. The Kennel was fifty miles away, though he'd gotten a good look at it on the drive down. The place was full of holes, so deep his flashlight didn't hit bottom, and when he dropped a magnesium flare it snapped and crunched in someone's teeth.

It had been a week, and Sam was the same. He covered his mouth with both hands and twitched a blue tarp aside. The shovel was six feet long and still had brains dried on the blade. Not today, he thought, and covered it up.

"How bout some food?" he said, moving round to open the front, where a tin foil pack lay over the exhaust manifold , "Burritoes ain't right less they got a little diesel in 'em."

He smiled around the hood, and blinked. "Sammy?"

He shut the truck and walked a pace. His bootprints shone clearly in the dust, but no other tracks beside them. The water and magazine sat where he dropped them, the leather bit in a pile. The rope was gone.

"Sam?"

He heard something to his left, and looking down he sat his foot inside a loop of rope. A second later the back of his head hit the side mirror and his ass was dragging across the open desert.

"Fuck, what're you doing?!"

Dean scrabbled for purchase, his fingers raking over the cracked earth. Sam heaved hand over hand, his shoulders glinting in the noonday sun, til the rope coiled at his bare feet like a snake. Dean hadn't pocketed anything, not a knife or so much as a loose nail in his shoe, and he bunched up his fists.

By the time they closed the gap, Dean's shirt had torn and his back was a nasty bruise. He tried to jump aside, but Sam stepped on the rope and Dean froze, legs splayed, half-crouched on the heels of his hands, panting hard. A shadow flickered across Sam's face, his mouth watering, but he couldn't recall what he was hungry for.

Then his fingers closed over Dean's ankle, and Sam flung himself on top with a noise bubbling from deep in his chest.

"Damn but I don't take my eyes off you for a second..." Dean muttered, struggling to get a hold of Sam's wrists. Sam's lips peeled back from white teeth, and when Dean tried to elbow him, he snapped backward and sank his teeth into his arm.

Dean set his mouth in a hard line, eyes locked with Sam's as a growl vibrated thru him. The pain sharpened the air around him, and suddenly he could smell everything, his clothes, his hair, the week of dried sweat on Sam. Blood ran in thick lines and pooled at his throat.

"You ain't gonna scare me out here."

Sam's hips moved a fraction inside Dean's legs, and blinking first he released his mouth on Dean's arm. Dean kept his guard up, the rope tight around his boot and too far to get a good grip. Sam's cock was swollen inside his jeans, and Dean wondered if that was recent or if the boy had spent all those nights watching him get off.

The bite was not deep. Blood welled where his eye teeth hit the bone, the skin around it clean. Sam breathed hot air on the wound, his face a red mess. And looking up with soft eyes, studying Dean's face, he touched his tongue to it.

Dean hadn't seen a shower in ages. It had been cold bucket baths for him, and even then he'd have to put his dirty clothes back on before the temperature dropped. That had been the hardest part of the last week in the desert, not being able to sleep naked. He let his eyes close and open, enjoying the warm sucking mouth against his skin.

"Thought you weren't thirsty."

The dust picked up again, the mountains, the truck, the world whiting out, and they were alone. Sam drew harder, taking Dean's arm in both hands to keep it in place, but if Dean felt any pain he swallowed it. Sam swiped his hand across his wet face, licking the stain off his fingers.

Dean placed his hand on the back of Sam's head. He should've done this days ago. "Come 'ere."

Their mouths met before the rest of them did. Sam had his hands on either side of Dean, his hair dancing in a filthy halo about his face, a window of blue sky above. And then he bowed inward, lips parted, toes pointed into the ground, slowly levering his arms into Dean's embrace until their bodies molded together.

The sky closed over them, and the sun was a ghost in the gray light. Dean's hand slid down to cup his cheek, tilting his head to breathe into Sam's open mouth, over the line of his jaw. The rope had some slack now, but he needed to get a little closer...

Sam didn't need a lot of convincing. Dean pulled his shirt over his head, his fists coming together in front of his face, miles of cut brown muscle displayed in a single elegant motion. Tossing it aside, he planted a row of soft kisses down Sam's throat, pushing him gently backwards to continue down his bare chest, never breaking Sam's stare.

"Ya know what I want?"

Sam shook his head. Then Dean told him, and he blushed.

"Is that a yes or no?"

Sam's eyes flicked to the rope around Dean's ankle. He wasn't stupid. But then Dean unzipped his jeans, the fabric clinging to his ass, and pressed his lips to the tip of Sam's cock, and the boy's brain turned to soup. Dean studied him, a single drop of pearl leaking from the end, thick and aching after so many days of Sam watching Dean in his sleep, and opened his mouth to take it.

He smiled up at Sam, his mouth sliding down the length, lips pink and wet, all the way down the base. Sam froze in wonder, his mouth slack and breathing hard, and then Dean's tongue curled to run along the underside and Sam's head tipped back so hard he saw stars.

"Fffffffuck..." he croaked, the first thing he'd said all week. Sam threaded his fingers thru Dean's hair, hips gently rising off the ground to meet his mouth. He wouldn't last.

Before long though, Dean slid up his body, cock grinding into Sam's hip, and turned them over.

"Get these off." he said, already toeing one boot halfway.

Sealing his mouth over his, Sam reaches down to undress Dean, shoving his pants down with his bare foot and hooking his arms under Dean's knees once they were both naked. Dean folded one arm behind his head, while the other hand closed around his cock.

"I ain't been able to come all week with you next to me."

Sam's cock twitched between Dean's legs, watching Dean work himself, that angel face slanted away in a wicked smile.

"Gets so cold at night," he said, "Weren't you cold too?"

Dean spat into his hand, fisting Sam's cock until it gleamed, and set the crown against his ass.

"That's it," he whispered, smiling at Sam shivered into the first slow thrust, burying himself, "Now just hold it right there."

Dean folded his legs around his ass, keeping him close. Sam took a shaky breath, the base of his cock crushed in warm velvet as Dean's fist pumped back and forth, but he did not move.

"You were asleep under the truck and all I could think," he whispered, barely heard over the wind, "Was how bad I wanted this."

Sam was very close, hypnotized by the motion of Dean's hand, slow and soft, his own cock siezing up and threatening to spill. They were alone, finally, in desparate need of each other, with Dean speared on the end of Sam's naked cock, Sam who was the only one to...Well, the only. He had to make the first claim.

He slapped Dean's hand away and took over, cupping the back of Dean's thigh to lever himself in a little deeper. Dean gave a kind of laugh that ran out of air halfway.

"Not so fast..."

Their foreheads knocked together, a little smile toying at the edge of Dean's lips at this turn of play. Sam leaned in, pushing Dean's leg back all the way until his knee touch his ear, and with a little twist of the hips Sam bottomed out until Dean's eyes rolled in their sockets.

"Fuck, we shoulda tried this instead of sleeping."

That last word. John's face floated before Sam's eyes, and Dean laughing at him back at the penitentiary. Dean had walked around all day with John's jizz drying beneath his shirt, and Sam had slept thru it. _You were three feet away_, he'd said,_ You tellin' me you didn't hear?_

Dean's smile burned in his brain, and Sam's hands curled into claws. A cloud passed over the sun, and his face fell into shadow.

"Whatsa matter baby boy?"

The cursed blood sang thru him, egging him on. Sam pressed his thumbs into the soft flesh beneath Dean's jaw, his pulse racing as Dean scratched at his wrists.

"What's..._wrong_ with you?!"

Sam's eyes were remote, clouded by old jealousies, but his body had been denied for too long. He drew back, the muscles in his back rippling beneath the desert sun, and nearly spent himself on re-entry. Leaning in he covered Dean's mouth, wet and salty, teeth sinking into his plush lower lip hard enough to bruise. Their bodies were all of a strange angle, but the important parts fit, and soon he was moaning in time with the snapping of his hips.

Dean got a breath. "Look at me, whatever's in your head, don't listen to it..."

Dean searched for the rope, and pausing long enough to flip Dean over on his belly, Sam snatched it from the ground and threw it out of reach.

Sam crossed Dean's arms behind him, so fast he might've dislocated something, and ground into him again. The wind coiled up his spine, tall and straight, and flicking his hair out his eyes he began the righteous fucking that would take up most of the afternoon. His thrusts came hard and fast, his breath hot on Dean's neck, mouth close enough brush the skin, the head of his cock pulsing inside him.

Their shadows slid across the earth. Dean pressed his cheek to the ground and took it, out of exhaustion, out of loneliness, and he would be a liar if a secret part of him wasn't thinking about John.

Later he looked up. The water had fallen over, the bottle nearly empty. If he could just stretch his arm a little...

Dean got one hand free and tossed a handful of dust over his shoulder, and the second it took Sam to shake it out of his eyes let him shift his weight. He tossed the rope over the mesquite post and pulled it taut, winding it around his arm to pull himself out from under Sam. He managed to catch a little air before Sam's arm came around his throat and wrenched him back.

"Yeah I wasn't having fun yet," Dean cracked, "You think you'd like me better dead?"

Dean sputtered for air. The cursed blood bubbled in Sam's brain, and when he spoke, his voice was unnatural, as if from the bottom of a well.

"You think John would fuck a corpse?"

It wasn't much, but Dean snatched the fistful of mud, and rolling over to pin Sam's shoulders with his knees, he covered his face, his nose pinched between thumb and forefinger. Sam's hands flew up to fight him, but Dean outweighed him, and had eaten well that week. Sam's eyes narrowed, tears leaking out the side toward the end, and Dean counted to himself and waited. After a minute, when he stopped struggling, Dean withdrew his hand and went back for the rope.

He bound Sam hand and foot this time, stretching his body lengthwise between the post and truck, then shook the dust out of his boots and sat in the truck, thinking. He stared down the road, nursing his bloody knuckles with a splash of whiskey.

The tarp fluttered in the back, over the shovel. He couldn't wait another night. Sam'd kill him in his sleep.

The town of Empire twinkled on the horizon, not more than a dozen houses, the mountains impossibly huge behind it. Dusk came slow. He waited until all the lights went out, then set to work.

* * *

><p>The colonel leaned against his trailer and rolled some tobacco from a can. "You can take the spot by the north fence, maybe a half-mile that way. I spray-painted an X."<p>

"Yes sir, I understand."

"Now mind you dig til you hit water, else it won't work."

"I don't act like I understand how any of this works."

The old man struck a match, his eyes flashing yellow for an instant. "The law's on their way."

"How'd they figure I was here?"

"Cuz I told 'em."

Dean nodded, folding his hands over the top of the shovel. The box in the truck cab rattled, but neither of them noticed. "You talk to John?"

"He ain't dead, if that's what you're wondering."

The old man sucked on his cigarette, the cherry glowing in the dark. Dean reached into the back and pulled out what he could trade, a box of ammunition, a case of water, a copy of _Catch-22_ John had set aside special, and received a round piece of steel grating in exchange. They nodded their goodbyes.

The stars burned blue, the hairs on his neck lifting in the chill night air, and the light in Colonel's house turned off save for whatever he had burning in the wood stove. Dean peeled off his shirt, knowing he wouldn't feel the cold in another minute.

The moon came out, silvering the lines of his back, dust catching the legs of his jeans before he'd gotten a foot down. If he felt Sam's eyes on him, he didn't let on. He worked in silence. In his experience, there were no good digging songs.

He wondered what prison would be like. He wondered what John would say if he ever saw him again. After a while he started talking to Sam, about nothing. What he ate that day, a coyote he saw at the gas station, the way a book ought to have ended. His life.

He kept a rope knotted from the truck to his waist and made grooves in the dirt from his boots for a ladder. When the blade finally hit water, he was a good eight feet down, and the squad cars rolled in.

"Mister Winchester?"

He wiped the dirt from his brow. "Yes sir?"

"Time to go."

Dean set the shovel against the side of the truck, and the men eyed him slowly as he reached for a crowbar and began teasing one side of the box loose. An arm shot out, but Dean grabbed it and pulled the rest of the boy out kicking and wriggling like a worm on a hook.

"Need a hand son?"

Dean grit his teeth and shook his head no. The rangers had worked with John in the past, and none of this business came as a surprise. Sam left a trail in the dust, but once they got to the well he froze, looking from it to Dean's face with dawning comprehension. Dean fastened the rope and then smoothed the boy's hair back, trying on a smile he didn't feel.

"Don't be like that. I ain't ever met a grave could keep you down. And when you're better..." he whispered, trailing off. He might be a hundred years old before that happened.

Dean held him in his arms a while, but didn't kiss him. He didn't believe in goodbye kisses anymore. Sam's eyes glistened, his mouth twisting as Dean gently lowered him down, until the starlight in his eyes were the only thing left.

It was quiet down there, water lapping at his bare feet, the whispers of his cursed neighbors, but something pressed against his forehead like a cold hand, and he knew no harm would come to him. The rest of the rope slid in at his feet. And clapping the dust off his hands, Dean popped the grating on top and began to dig around the edges.

Sam's fingers reached thru the grate, curling as he lifted himself to watch Dean go. Four pieces of rebar fixed the lid into the earth, candy-caned over to make doubly sure. Handcuffs clinked in the dark.

"You have the right to remain silent..."

The door shut and two sets of brake lights swung out in a red arc. The tires kicked a little at the gravel road, then evened out and head toward the capitol. Sam hung there until they winked out, his eyes blurring. He still had Dean's ring on his hand, and he would have traded it and all his guns and the every drop of blood in his body for five more minutes in the boy's arms.

And then, slowly, heartache settled in his bones and he let himself down.


	63. Here Lies Dean Winchester

**Don't write porn when you're hungry. Now I have this Sabriel idea involving waffles and bacon and having maple syrup dripped down Sam's body, with Gabriel setting up a sign by a diet center reading "LOSE WEIGHT, EAT COCK".**

**Reader notes: Sam went to Nevada to detox from zombie blood, while Dean went to jail for attempting to kill the Senator. **

* * *

><p>Sam flipped up his shirt collar and slung a tie around his neck. The trailer had been empty for months, the roof caved in and one wall fallen into the grass after a hurricane, but the closet had remained intact. Sparrows flew in the window, but did not break the silence. They pecked at the mirror, a newspaper spread across the floor with the Senator smiling out the front page.<p>

He stared at his reflection and smoothed his hair. Then he plucked his gun off the table and wrapped it inside a bunch of flowers.

He closed the door gently, stepping on the Senator's face on the way out. The silence followed him, and only then did the birds begin to sing. A clipping fluttered in the corner of the mirror, and slid to the floor.

"WALNUT GROVE PRISON: Inmate 827882 died Monday while resisting two guards. The Department of Corrections shall withhold his identity pending investigation. Graveside service Sunday at noon."

* * *

><p>Braceface shined a flashlight through the cemetery gate. No one had cut the grass in years. "Why are we stealing a teddy bear?"<p>

"It was Emily's baby sister's. Emily says we can spend the night at her house if we bring it," said Boobs, her eyes wide, "They have a _naked_ room."

"Emily didn't have a baby sister," said Braceface, "That teddy bear's like fifty years old or something."

Walnut Grove Cemetery had it's celebrities, but everyone's favorite was the unmarked grave with stuffed animals on it. New ones arrived every year, and the landscapers were loathe to remove them. Boobs knew a spot in the brickwork worn down enough to climb, and leaning against the wall she stooped to remove a high heel and dig her toes into a stony groove. They'd visited earlier that day for a classmate's funeral, and neither of them had changed out of their black pantyhose.

"What's a naked room?"

"It's a _room_. Her brother goes in there and takes off his clothes and just..." said Boobs, her arms flopping up and down as she turned in a circle, "Like that."

"I don't wanna see him naked," said Braceface, as Boobs vanished over the wall, "He's next to me in math class, all he does is draw guns with boobs on it."

"I can't hear you, what?"

Braceface tossed the flashlight over, and hauled herself by her elbows. Landing beside her, Boobs spotted a statue of a saint in repose and nudged Braceface.

"I dare you to hump it."

Braceface shook her head and sniffed her fingers nervously. Her period had started, and her nails had a not unpleasant mix of blood, fish, and whatever cheap fragrance they sprayed on tampon applicators. But she'd been careful not to sit on anything white, and the statue was pure marble.

"You do it." said Braceface.

"I will _totally_ do it if you don't."

"You have to do the cheer."

"Oh yeah!" said Boobs, running up to the statue with her arms over her head in a V, "Count off!"

Braceface smiled. She couldn't believe they taught this cheer to middle schoolers. "Five, six, seven, eight!"

Boobs pulled back her shoulders and swung her hair out. "Ya peel it to the left, then ya peel it to the right, then ya put it in your mouth, and ya UGHN," said Boobs with a pelvic thrust in the saint's mouth, "Take a bite! UGHN take a bite! UGHN UGHN UGHN! Gooooo Eastview Eagles!"

Braceface covered her mouth giggling. "Shut up!" she hissed, "The jail is like two streets over, they'll hear!"

"You shut up," said Boobs, removing her leg, "Gimme the flashlight, I can find the toys faster."

"No really," said Braceface, turning off the light, "I think someone's here."

Boobs stepped closer. She clutched her dress, her mouth an O. "Cops?" she whispered.

"I didn't see a car. Maybe they came from the other side," said Braceface, looking around, "No wait, I see him. He's cutting thru the woods..."

Boobs kept a hand on her friend's sleeve, the funeral lace scratchy to the touch, and followed. "Where's he going?"

* * *

><p>Sam looked for Dean all night, but none of the graves he found were less than a year old. Spread out over twenty five acres of undeveloped timberland beneath the power lines, the jail's collection of snitches, serial killers, suicides, and other in-house deaths was a maze of half-assed interments. Dogs watched him pass, curled up beside a skeleton in an orange jumpsuit.<p>

The trail was wide enough for one set of feet, worn down to the gravel in places with Queen Anne's lace growing six feet high on either side. Planks had been set across the muddier spots, the plywood bending like licorice under Sam's weight. He heard neither cars nor insects, and listened to the sound of his boots.

Graves spotted the path every now and then, footpaths winding away to granite crosses, but the vines grew so thick that from a distance any break in the weeds took on an organic symmetry, as if a giant had poked his finger into a green pudding. He spread apart some ferns to find a stone marker, an American flag rotting beside a plastic wreath and a bottle of Mad Dog, and stood back up. The death date put the inmate at Sam's age, and he shuddered at the memory of Nevada.

Eventually he spotted the beer bottle, the freshest trash he'd seen all night, and followed it into the trees. Little blue flowers clung to his legs, and the canopy grew so thick that he had to bend down to feel the ground. He patted the pinestraw, knowing he was close, until his boot sank into the earth and he hit overturned soil.

It was still piled high, this area didn't get much rain. Straightening his fingers into the ground, the straw basket held tight in his other fist, he knelt before the grave.

The basket didn't hold much...a box of fried chicken, a length of rope...but then the news clipping on Dean's death didn't give him much to go on. If Dean had been buried alive, he would be hungry after a fuck.

He looped the rope around his belt. If Dean were dead but still in tact, Sam might bring him back. The knowledge of the scavenging dead was still there, like the taste of blood in the back of his throat, and he'd need to keep Dean leashed if he arose tonight. If Dean were a lost cause however...

He cleared his throat. It was easier with six feet of earth between him and Dean, and if he didn't say it here he'd never find the strength a second time.

"Ya know, there was always a third man between us," he said, feeling the gun inside the funeral bouquet, "And he was who I became whenever you walked in the room."

He reached in and fingered the safety. "He wasn't very nice," he said, looking up with a twist in his smile, "And he wasn't much better."

"But I can't live in a world," he said, his eyes glittering, "Where that man doesn't exist."

He took his hand away and balled it against his mouth. The trailer he'd broken into was a two hour walk back, with no lights, no blankets, and water-damaged photos of someone else's happy family. He bent his face until the flowers touched his forehead, and more than anything he wanted to lay down and sleep.

"Can you hear me?"

He pressed his ear to the ground.

"Dean?"

He swallowed and held his breath. His fingers sank into the black soil, heart thudding slowly. And then, sitting up, he set aside the flowers and began to dig.

Boobs and Braceface leaned closer, hidden in the weeds and unable to see Sam save for his white shirt. The gun frightened them, but if they ran now he would hear them, and who would think to look for two missing girls in a field of dead cons?

Sam's shoulders strained as he dug deeper, the soil packed tighter and mixed with stones. Wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his sleeve, he plunged his arm into the grave all the way to his neck, gritting his teeth as he felt around for the pine box.

"Come on..." he hissed, his nails scratching something as last. Something knocked on wood far below, and with a sudden burst of movement he lept to the side and began to dig in earnest, the knocks coming faster and louder. Boobs backed into a tree when the first board splintered, and the grave began to collapse.

"The fucking rope..." Sam said to no one, dumping out the contents of the basket before he recalled it was on his hip, just as four fingers sprouted from the earth like pale stalks.

Boobs and Braceface froze, hugging each other. Taking in a shaky breath, Sam leaned over with his eyes closed, as a dirty hand traveled up the front of his shirt, up and over his collar bone, to gently slide along his throat and touch the side of his face. The moment stretched into infinity, a small part of him imagining that his eulogy had summoned Dean from the other side, hungry, lonely, transformed into a creature more to Sam's taste.

A second hand emerged, and shoving one end of the rope in it's grasp Sam ran to secure it to the nearest tree, folding one leg behind him to heave Dean into the waking world.

"Come on, up you get..."

Leaves curled and spun past them in the summer breeze, tendrils waving in the tree limbs to brush over the pair. Gathering Sam's shirt in his fists, Dean emerged from the grave half-pulling them both back in, buttons popping in all directions until Sam lost his balance and fell back, arms splayed and shirt flown apart on either side of him. The box of food fell over and burst it's contents.

Dean stood, a filthy wife-beater wrapped round his mouth and nose, chest heaving and nails bloodied, looking for all the world like an avenging bandito. Sam stared but did not speak, as Dean fell to his knees between Sam's legs.

"I thought you were miles away..." Dean whispered behind the mask. He found Sam's bouquet, and silk petals sprayed across Sam's chest as he ripped up a fistful. "What are these?"

"I read the newspaper," said Sam, his voice breaking, "I thought you'd died, I wasn't sure..."

Dean tore off the mask and kissed him.

"I thought it'd be years before I saw you again," Dean whispered, pushing his slacks down with one hand, fingertips trailing Sam's thigh to the knee until Sam kicked off the rest, "I thought I'd be old."

Sam was pathetically hard inside his briefs, head of his cock peaking from the elastic to drip down his belly. Dean traced his thumb over the slit, earning a shudder from Sam, then pulled it free, warming it in his hand like a gear shift. He pressed his mouth to Sam's throat, teeth dragging down his chest while looking up thru his lashes, but Sam stood him up.

"Let me look at you."

Sam knelt before him, the orange jumpsuit half off with the sleeves hanging behind Dean's ass. Sam raised his hands to unbutton the rest, breathing hot over Dean's briefs and looking up at his silhouette against the stars. Sam glanced over the edge of the grave, feeling it's pull.

"That it?" Dean asked, with a leer, "Still wanna little dead in ya?"

Sam blushed, about to deny it, but Dean flipped him over, Sam's fingers spreading wide in the dirt as Dean's hip ground into the small of his back.

"Good thing I woke up hungry," he said, yanking Sam's hair back, "I been thinking about your sweet ass all week."

A hot breath against his neck and then Dean's teeth tore back the collar, searching for clean skin. Sam panted, eyes wide in the gathering gloom, and bowed inward as Dean's hand snaked inside of his slacks. Dean had clocked all his free time in the jailhouse weight room, and his hand felt like warm car leather. Soon, a fine sheen of sweat glistened along his muscled forearm, slowly milking a drop of slick from the end of Sam's cock until the boy thought his knees might give out.

"Fuck..." Sam hissed. He half-hoped Dean didn't talk this time. Undead were men of few words.

Dean rolled them over, still holding Sam's cock, and grabbed his ass. A little noise escaped Sam as his cock pushed through the ring of Dean's greased hand, hips rebounding for another thrust but stopped by Dean's hand on his back. "You're close," he warned, "Wait a second."

Sam whined, then kissed him. "Take me down there," he whispered, "Please..."

Dean drew him in, sucking on his lower lip. Sam would never know how many nights Dean spent in solitary dreaming of him. If he'd been in jail any longer, he might have taken some of the murderers up on their offers, though not for fucking. Nothing that elegant. And gathering Sam up in his strong arms, Dean lifted him off his feet, their mouths still sealed, and lept into the open grave.

Dean latched onto Sam's hip, pumping the boy's cock with his right hand as he wrapped his arms around Dean's gravestone. Mostly Sam kept his eyes shut, but every few seconds he'd twist his head around to look, pink lips parted, side of his face pressed against the stone that read HERE LIES DEAN WINCHESTER.

"What, you think I ain't real?" Dean asked, "That I'm haunting you?"

Sam smiled. He hadn't even thought that far. "If you died, would you come back for a fuck?"

Dean knelt for an answer, balancing the end of Sam's cock on the tip of his tongue with a fox smile, then took it in so fast he cut his lip on the zipper. Sam sucked in a breath, nails digging into Dean's shoulder, back rigid as he fought against finishing too soon. He flattened his other hand against the gravestone, tracing the letters for a moment before stopping himself. That would surely up-end him.

Dean stuck two fingers in Sam's mouth, and closing his eyes Sam lost himself in a world of blood and cum and graveyard dirt, until Dean withdrew and used his spit to wet his own cock. He did this for a while, pushing his fingers back into Sam's mouth and returning to preparations until his cock stood thick and dripping between Sam's legs.

"Lay down." said Sam.

"What, like this?" Dean asked, sitting back. He ran his hands over Sam's ankles, tracing the bone, the peach fuzz on the back of his calves. No one had touched Dean in jail, excepting that one fight, and he couldn't bring himself to jerk off with eleven other boys sharing a cell built for six. He didn't want them watching, even if Sam were only in his head.

Sam steadied himself against a treeroot, his cock bobbing excitedly as he felt the top of Dean's cock probing his ass. The monsters in Nevada had made offers, creatures buried miles away whispering as clearly as if they had stood next to him, and every night he shut them out. Even when they used Dean's voice.

He lowered himself over the first inch, the thick cockhead opening him, sliding in until the ridge disappeared inside the plump rim. Fuck, he could've gotten off on that alone, if Dean dared touch his dick, but holding that thought he levered himself down all the way, until Dean's cock was sealed inside. It stung on the first pull, but he had the satisfaction of watching Dean's mouth twist in expectation.

"Fuck I missed this..." said Dean, as Sam stretched over him. Except for the lid, the coffin remained in one piece. Burying himself balls-deep, Dean hooked his hands under Sam's thighs and plowed him into the remains of the pine box, the noises he earned making him harder with every thrust.

Not content with the pace, Sam scratched at Dean's arms for him to go faster, eddies of dust swirling round their heads as the coffin protested. Dean's eyes flicked down at Sam's aching cock. At this point he could probably breathe on it and made the kid come.

Dean fucked harder, arms straining, sweat rolling down his flat belly, watching Sam thru heavy lidded eyes. Then the moon came out, and every line on his muscled body glowed like fuckable sculpture. His fist closed around Sam's cock, a bead of pearl weeping from the end.

"You wanna stay here with me?" he whispered by Sam's ear. Dean smelled like the jail, other men's blood in his hair.

Sam shook his head. "No..."

"Cuz if you come all over my hand, it means you like it," said Dean, leaning in dangerously, "I _made_ you like it."

"Don't be scared. You can be just like me," Dean continued, smiling with his tongue pushed against the back of his teeth, "It only hurts a second."

"I'm not gonna..."

"Yeah you are," he said, working him faster, "You wanna die tonight?"

Breathing into each other's open mouths, Sam continued to protest, hips snapping up to take Dean in deeper. He looked thru his bangs, his hands lost in his shirt sleeves as he grabbed the back of Dean's head and pulled his face into his neck. Down there, Sam felt like he was plunging to the center of the earth, as if Dean weighed more than a planet.

"Don't let the others get me." Sam whispered against Dean's skin, referring to the graves he'd passed on the way here.

"Don't worry," said Dean, wringing a wail out of Sam as he came to the end and closed down on the base of Dean's cock like a hot rosebud blooming in reverse, "They'll know you're mine." And drawing back his lips, Dean marked Sam in the shadow below his ear, pumping into him until Sam twisted upward and claimed him inside and out. He didn't stop, his right hand a sloppy mess, his own cock softening only to harden again in a half minute inside Sam's sweet ass, and fucked him some more until they were both raw.

Sam's chest heaved after the second time, Dean's cock rising between his legs. "Again?"

Dean licked his lips. "You got any food?"

* * *

><p>Later, Dean sucked chicken grease off of Sam's fingers while bouncing the boy in his lap. Sunlight touched the fringe of Sam's hair and edged him in gold.<p>

"Did you kill anyone?" Sam asked, eyes flicking towards the jail.

"Man you watch too much TV," said Dean, "But yeah, I fucked up one of the Sugarland boys on the second day. Ya gotta do at least one beat down to, ya know, set the tone, or they'll never leave you alone."

"What's Sugarland's business?" asked Sam.

Dean ripped a strip off the chicken leg Sam dangled over his face, and swallowing it he grabbed Sam's hair and thrust his tongue inside his mouth, moaning softly as he felt Sam harden against his belly. He didn't want to talk, not now, and didn't stop until Sam shot hot jizz across his chest.

* * *

><p><em>Dean knelt on the gym floor, his roommate a bloody heap in the corner and three young Mexicans looming over him. A fourth peeled off his shirt and draped it over the security camera by the door.<em>

_"Oscar had six months to parole," said the leader, running a baseball bat lovingly over Dean's cheek, "Why you wanna fuck with someone your first week inside?"_

_Despite his nickname, Black was light-skinned with a pencil mustache, and at sixteen he was handsome, cheerful, and sentenced to ninety years for killing a judge. He was also the recruiter for his gang back in Houston, and set up outgoing cons with jobs. Dean said nothing, afraid any answer would imply disrespect._

_"Oscar's got family out west, who's gonna send them money when he can't hardly fuckin' walk?" said Black, not expecting a reply, "__Ya know what Oscar makes on a single job?"_

_Dean shook his head, and Black told him. "All my boys live nice. Big house, new rides, fuck you know Oscar's wife has a white maid? __Now, you seem like the reliable type. Maybe if you do me a favor, do a little work on the outside..."_

_He made a grand sweeping gesture. "We can put it behind us and you could see some class money. __I know you got people. Do this right, you and your boyfriend can retire early."_

_He leaned in, and the bottom half of his face disappeared in shadow. "Turn on mine again," he said, the bat scraping against Dean's stubble, "And I'll fuck the both of you with a dick so big a horse would feel it."_

_Dean snorted. He was still buzzed from the fight and not thinking long-term. "My grandmother had a bigger dick."_

_"Déjame matar a esa gringo." said one of the others, stepping forward with fists balled up. But Black pressed a hand to his shoulder and made some joke too fast for Dean to hear, though he caught "white bitch" in the translation._

__"Hey hermanos, sea bueno." said Black, smiling until everyone relaxed, and then turned back to Dean. _After a moment's consideration, he lowered the bat and pulled Dean to his feet. __"I think we're gonna be best friends."_

* * *

><p>"What's Sugarland's business?" Sam asked again, later.<p>

Dean took another bite and swallowed. He hated lying. "Flipping cars."

"That doesn't sound too bad."

"Nope," said Dean, wiping away breadcrumbs with his thumb, "They don't need me too soon anyway."

"Good," said Sam, shoving a cube of fried okra between Dean's teeth, lingering there a moment to trace his mouth, "Cuz we gotta go to Florida."

Dean stopped. "Why?"

"You didn't wonder how I got out of the Kennel so soon?"

Dena shrugged and swallowed his food. "How's I supposed to know how long monster detox takes?"

"Well I got help. And I now I owe someone a favor."

"What did they do to you?"

A smile crept up one side of Sam's face. The three women had been masked, but only two of them were human. The third woman was huge, nine feet tall if she'd been able to stand on her own, eyes spaced so far apart she had to turn her body to study him. He remembered the smell of the ocean as she unhinged her mouth, tiny soft teeth, the underside of her jaw baggy with pink wattles, a strange song humming in her chest as she swallowed him headfirst...

"You'd have to see it."

"These folks hunters?"

"Yeah, but not like John. They don't believe killing's the way to do business."

"So what's their party line?" said Dean, opening wide as Sam snapped the bone and dripped hot marrow between his lips.

Sam smiled. He was gonna love Florida. "They're gonna breed them out."

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	64. Big Sister

**Thanks to zephry hb for the hellhound prompt!**

**Notes: Sam spent time in Nevada detoxing from zombie blood, until three women hunters visited and cured him. The boys are now in Florida to repay the debt.**

* * *

><p>Dean surveyed the compound, munition sheds tucked far from the road behind grain fields, and everywhere was the low fog of cookfires. It had an actual name, but hunters had always referred to this place as Big Sister. <em>"Best place to train for hand-to-hand fighting, I'll give 'em that," John had said once, "But you never met a bigger bunch of stuck-up bitches."<em>

Dean couldn't complain though. The first girl he met was a leggy blonde parked over a tub of boiling roof pitch, from which she extracted a flash-boiled potato and handed it to him on a tin plate. Breaking the crust with his knife, he levered out a mouthful and thanked her between bites, but if she heard him she did not acknowledge it.

"Don't any of these chicks talk?" Dean whispered to Sam, who watched the dirt path leading to a plaza.

"They got a contract here," Sam replied, "They warned me back in Nevada."

"What, no manners allowed?"

Sam looked away, and Dean didn't press him. They passed two girls wrestling a mule into it's harness, and later three girls carrying an oak tree so thick their heads didn't clear the top, a border collie following them. Dean bent down to scratch the dog's ears, an old trick for softening the ladies, but the nearest tree-hugger only snapped her fingers, and the collie left him.

"Whatever," Dean muttered, clapping his hands on his jeans, "I bet they're freaks in the sack after a coupla beers."

Sam shook his head. "Don't even try."

"Who's in charge here anyway?"

All of the buildings were red brick with tin roofs, but one had a stained glass window over the door, and they took this to be HQ. A girl sat inside behind a desk, writing out a letter in long-hand. It was then that Dean noticed the lack of electricity, and wished he'd thought to pack more batteries.

Sam put his hand on the desk. "I hope I'm not interrupting, but I have an appointment with Ms. Stone."

She finished the paragraph before looking up. "And what is the nature of your business?"

"She hired me for the job in Funtown."

Dean snorted. "What, monsters take over a rolling skate rink or somethin'?"

Sam shot him a look and continued. "My partner and I need to speak with her before continuing on our own."

"Is he staying over night?" she asked, pointing at Dean.

"Why does that matter?" Dean asked.

She pulled a laminated contract from the desk and set it before him with a pen and a blank sheet of paper, which she Xed at the bottom. "Read this and print your name here."

"Fine, okay." said Dean, reaching to sign. Sam grabbed his wrist.

"Don't you want to read that first?"

Dean smiled. "I ain't gonna fight anybody while we're here."

"It's not just a no-kill zone," said Sam, "It's an ethics agreement."

Dean blinked and read the first few lines aloud. "During their stay, party A (the signed) agrees to refrain from alcohol, tobacco, gambling, profanity, oh for fuck's sake, really?"

The girl looked at Sam, and Sam leaned into Dean's ear. "It's only a few days."

"And what's this, 'prohibit the pursuit of sexual gratification unrelated to teratogenation'?" asked Dean, glaring at Sam, "What kind of freakshow is this?"

Sam swallowed. "I owe them."

Dean gave him a level look, searching his eyes, and was about to walk back to the interstate when he noticed more girls pass outside the windows. Two of them wielded machetes, blood dripping down their arms with red handprints on their movie-star perfect asses. Well, a few days of clean living couldn't be so bad...

Dean smiled. "If it's for a friend of Sam's..."

He signed in block letters, and the paper disappeared back into the desk right as the girl pulled out a binder and opened it to to DAY DUTIES. "You'll be helping the afternoon shift in the kitchen."

"Awesome, I make killer chili..."

"Not you," she said, though she did not look at Dean, "Sam can't risk any injury while he's here. You'll be spotter for the practice pit."

Dean nodded like he understand, which he didn't. He had an idea of pressing towels to sweating bosoms in a boxing ring, and left his imagination there all the walk outside, until he realized Sam had peeled away in the opposite direction toward the smell of roast beef. The office girl was still next to him, her eyes straight ahead.

"...so we keep a rabbit hutch by the pit," she said, and Dean wondered how long she'd been talking, "If it gets too rowdy, just throw one in and let the trainee climb out."

Dean squinted in the sunlight. "I notice ya'll don't have a gun range."

"We focus on close quarters fighting," she said, "That and riding. All of us can hunt on horseback."

"Lady, we ain't roping calves here."

She kept her eyes ahead, and hurried to watch a training session already in progress. A woman in her late forties crouched nearby smoking a cigarette, her baseball cap frayed at the brim, and the office girl smiled.

"How is it today?"

The older woman removed her hat, the sunburn stopping an inch from her hairline. "I had to put seventeen stitches in Gwen, but beyond that..."

"Good," she said, pointing to Dean, "This is Dean Winchester. He'll be spotting the next few days."

The woman studied him clinically. "You like dogs?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Well that's too bad," she said, grinding the stub into the dirt, "Cuz this one don't like you."

The pit lay in a clay field, two car-lengths in diameter with a rope ladder coiled off to the side. Around the edge they'd driven stumps cut from an old telephone poll, each girl perched with her bare feet together and many gone shirtless. The land withered in a neat surrounding ring, and when Dean stooped to pick up a rock, it crumbled in his hand like a sugar cube.

"What's in there?"

They paid him no mind, their hair bound in knots atop their heads, tensing as a cloud of dust spiraled upward. Eventually a flat-chested girl rubbed her hands together and lept in. The office girl picked up an egg timer and turned it to two minutes.

Dean approached, his brow knit. "...what the hell is she fighting?"

Clawed tracks appeared in the dust, big around as hubcaps. Inside, the girl's feet floated six inches above the ground, her arms locked around some unseen neck with one cheek pressed into it's side. She gave it a bite, and black blood sprayed in her face as something between a pig and a velociraptor cried out and bucked her into the air. She sailed into the wall, shook it off, and spread her arms before her to try again.

"What's in there?" Dean repeated quietly, though no one made him whisper. The creature growled, a wet sound rising and falling like a chainsaw lodged in old meat, and Dean had a vision of himself in chains. He stepped away.

"Ms. Stone trapped it," said the office girl, "Very rare."

"What happens if it gets out?"

"It can't climb."

"Can you kill it?" Dean asked, his hands beginning to sweat.

"That's not our goal." she said. When the timer dinged, the girl was lifted out, a long scrape down her back, and another took her place. Dean was given the timer, and for the rest of the afternoon no one spoke to him. He scanned the field for signs of Sam, but they were too far from the main buildings.

The fighting was much the same, though no more injuries occurred, and at sunset he followed the girls toward the kitchen. The cook ladled beans and meat, her face dripping with steam, and everyone sat on the ground with tin plates between their feet. Sam emerged once everyone was served, and sat beside Dean with two apples hidden inside his shirt.

Dean stared at his dinner. "Did you cook this?"

"No."

"What is it?"

Sam speared a forkful. "Squirrel."

"The fuck it is."

"You see any squirrels around here?"

Dean smiled, then grabbed Sam's hair to pull him close. "I missed you."

He leaned in for a kiss, but Sam pushed him away. "Not here."

"Come on baby boy, I didn't see 'no mackin' on the list."

Sam pressed his lips together. "We need to set an example."

"For _who_?" Dean asked, a little too loud, "No one's talkin' to me, what have I missed?"

Rubbing his mouth, Sam stood and held out his hand to Dean. "Fine, we'll go talk to someone."

Sam led him back to HQ, where they were waved inside another room with no chairs and a wall map of Florida with addresses written on a list beside it. They were told to wait and the door shut.

"So what's this Funtown job?"

"I don't everything," Sam admitted, "But houses are disappearing all over Florida and ending up on the coast instead. They have ideas..."

"Wait, _houses_? How the fuck do you steal a house?!"

"...but someone would have to track down the original home-owners and asked them what they saw," Sam continued, "From there, we have a better idea of how to approach."

Dean hooked a thumb into his belt and tapped his hip. "What's somebody gonna do with a buncha houses?"

Sam's eyes flicked toward the map. "Build a monster village?"

"What kinda time frame we lookin' at?"

"Not much time at all."

Dean looked away. "Figures," he said, sliding an arm around Sam's waist, "Well, the sooner we're outta here..."

Sam placed his hands on Dean's chest. "We really can't. They'll hear us."

"So be quiet." whispered Dean, pressing his mouth to Sam's throat. Sam bent beneath his touch, fingers curling over Dean's shirt collar.

"Stop it," Sam hissed, though his hands traveled to cup Dean's head closer, "It'll smell you on me."

Dean looked up. "Who?"

Sam drew away, but Dean persisted. "Talk."

Sam picked his words. "The hunters who train here are...like me."

Dean mulled over that. "Got a taste for Evil Dick?"

"Dean..."

"Yeah okay, so what?"

"So they don't train to kill. Every girl here is slotted to pair up with an available client-"

"Wait," said Dean, holding up his hand, "They gotta _marry_ a creature?"

Sam shook his head, a strange light in his eyes. "They _want_ it. The idea is, if they can...humanize them, keep them out of trouble, maybe the next generation can integrate with everyone else-"

"Babies, really?!" said Dean, turning on his heel, "You're fucking with me. I mean, I could put a snake in a onesie and I'd still wanna kill it."

"I made a deal back in Nevada," said Sam, hugging himself, "It's big, whatever's running the Funtown operation, and no one else wants to take it on. Big Sister sought me out special."

"So we go and we kill it, whatever it is. One critter, hell, I know a hundred guys who could do that. Nothing special there," said Dean, his lip curling, "What does it need _you_ for?"

The question stretched across the room, and counting their shadows Dean turned to find someone else. Six feet tall with white hair and a kerchief hiding the lower half of her face, she sat in the corner drinking from a water glass as if she'd been there the whole time. She wore no shoes, she wore no gun. She moved slowly, yet gave Dean a look that should have stuck out the back of his head.

"It needs Sam," said Stone Love, her voice cracked, "For a husband."

TBC


	65. Stone Love

Dean pulled Sam close to shield him. Though the kerchief was tight around Stone Love's face, it did not bell outward when she spoke, neither did her chest rise and fall to breath. John had spoken of such a hunter, but her history was all speculation.

_"They say someone fucked up her face," said had John, pressing his knife to an orange and cutting around the meridian, "Cut the corners of her mouth a little, kicked her in the belly, and when she screamed..."_

_He peeled back the skin, juice seeping between his fingers. "Others say she's half-breed. Like most of her's normal but she's got three sets of teeth or a forked tongue or something."_

_Dean watched him carefully. "What do you think?"_

_John cleaned the knife against his tongue in two quick stropping motions. "I think she's so beautiful that she's keepin' it special for someone else."_

"This creature got a name?" Dean asked.

She looked at Sam, but he wanted to hear it as well. "Please?"

Dean thought it strange that she remained on the floor while they stood towering over her, but then she slipped in so quick that, even seated with her legs crossed, she'd beat him to the door before he turned his back. Her eyes were distant as she listed the creature's names, as if recounting a war that only she had outlived.

"Parra del Mar. Carino Muerte. The Queen in Black," she said, "She has more titles than husbands, and she buried enough of those."

Dean's arm circled Sam's waist. "He ain't interested in your widow."

She sipped her water, ducking her head until the glass slid under her kerchief. "Have you ever heard of Funtown?"

He snorted. "Sounds like you all made it up."

She lifted her hand and pressed a finger on the wall map without looking at it, her arm as spotted brown as a fish. "She had her own city, once, somewhere at the bottom of the ocean," she said, fingertip feeling along the coastline, "Fifty years ago she came here, seeking pilgrims willing to follow her and start a new home."

"Did she get them?"

"The elders shipped their unwanted out to sea as tribute," she said, as if reading off a script, "And years later the children she got off of killers, beggars, and lunatics walked out of the ocean and asked for asylum. We arranged for land and help-meets in exchange for peace."

"Help-meets," said Dean, mentally totting up all the girls in the compound, "She had mostly sons?"

She nodded. "Mostly sons."

"You do a lot of training here for mail-order brides."

"Funtown boys only look human. They do not eat like us, and must be put," she said, a keen flicker in her eyes, "At a safe distance."

"Well while I appreciate that Sam owes ya'll a favor, he ain't the settlin' down type."

"You think he won't want her?"

"Ma'am, you don't understand," said Dean, placing a hand over his heart and adopting a tone of polite condescension, "Sam doesn't wanna fuck one monster. He wants to fuck _all_ of 'em. He wants a new one in the morning, and after breakfast they'll invite all their friends and pull a chain on his ass until it gets dark and then a different crew comes to take their turn. Hell, he can't get through the day without it, we'll be old men and I'll have to cut a slit in a side of beef and stick plastic fangs over it to keep his balls from turnin' black."

"We don't have a lot of options," she said, her voice unchanged, "Her husband passed this year, and either we provide for her to have children or she will take them unwillingly. The town is prepared to make a sacrifice if necessary."

_Fuck, why do people always put their kids on the line?_ he thought. "Why Sam," Dean asked thru his teeth, "Why not some other hunter?"

"What did you see in the training pit today?"

Dean's stomach turned at the memory, the empty air circling each girl with a purity of purpose you didn't see even in demons. "I didn't see nothin'."

"Yes, Hell Hounds are...distinct."

"So what, this bitch is invisible too?"

She breathed in slowly and held it there a minute, gathering her thoughts. "Parra del Mar, all of her kin in fact, can not be looked upon."

_I might say the same of you lady_. Dean thought.

"No one's survived to say what it is," she continued, "Whether their eyes twist a man to madness, or they are horribly deformed, or they are so beautiful that you forget to look away, but to see their face is to surely die."

"Nothin' special about closing your eyes for sex."

"Sam is different," she said, her index finger pointing in a gentle upward curve, "When we found him in the desert, his blood was thrice cursed, one by the vampire, once by the scavengers, and once by Heaven. We suspect he now a natural immunity."

"Hear that? You're Medusa-proof," said Dean, bumping his hip against Sam, "He swims down, knocks her up, and we're home in time for Kentucky Squirrel Pie. Sounds bomb diggity."

Sam spoke for the first time, a question that had burned in the back of his head. "How long was her last husband down with her?"

She said nothing, and Sam squeezed Dean's hand and motioned to leave. "Thank you for your time, ma'am."

Outside, the gravel street turned red in the sunset, the windows reflecting the trees back to them in black and white. Dean kicked a rock and sat down hard on an oak log, but did not release Sam's hand.

"It'll be a lot of trouble if I don't do it Dean."

"I know it."

Sam lay his head on Dean's shoulder. "How am I supposed to get out of this marriage contract?"

"Go back inside and eat," said Dean, and he pulled him into his arms and pressed his mouth to his, the corners of his lips tugged in an easy smile only for Sam, "I'll think of something."

* * *

><p>Dean approached the nurse. "Isn't there a rule about smoking?"<p>

She looked up at him. "I don't live here," she said, smoke pluming from her nostrils, "I got a house down the road."

"Can I get a ride?"

"Where to?"

He dug his hands in his jacket pockets. "Was wondering if any of the Funtown boys live nearby."

She tilted her head toward the back gate, and he followed, keeping a few steps behind to give her space. The truck was filled with medical supplies, her two other shirts on wire hangers behind the passenger seat. Despite the lack of traffic, she slowed at the first red light, and cut the engine to save gas.

"What's the wife like?" he asked

"I don't really know," her face glowing as she lit her next cigarette, "She doesn't get out."

"Why, she sick?"

She rolled the window and blew out smoke. "You'll see."

"What's her name?"

"They call her the Virgin."

He smiled. "Do I light a candle at her feet?"

"Some men don't want to marry for children," she said, "Some men just want...the nearness of a woman."

"So she don't fuck them?"

"You'll see."

They pulled up to a house close to the street, but three miles from anywhere else. Moving the cigarette to the other side of her mouth, she reached behind his seat and pulled up a pint jar. "I always like to drop something off when I visit."

Dean ran his thumb over the pebbled glass, warm from sitting in the car, and watched the honey climb up the inside, the comb gone white on top. "I'll let her know you said hi."

She nodded, and he stepped out onto a brick path slippery with clover. From the road it looked like a boat, two stories with round windows, long and skinny and painted a pretty pale pink, and he circled it once before shrugging at the nurse.

"There's no door."

She pointed up top, and craning his neck he found a curtain in the shadows of a fenced-in porch on the top floor. Setting a metal trashcan by the house, he stepped up and pulled himself inside.

"Hello?" he said, holding up the honey jar, "I come from Big Sister, we brought you somethin'."

The porch was blue-collar nice, a white steel chair, plaster bird bath with a swan, and burlap flowers jammed into every corner. Gardening porn filled a shelf, and a saddle hung on the wall. He put his hand on the curtain.

"My name's Dean," he said carefully, "My friend Sam is getting married, and I wanted to talk to you."

Something moved within. "Come in."

Her voice was high and gentle, like a sickroom attendant. He pushed the curtain aside, but could not see the room. "Mind if I turn on a light?"

"There's matches by the door."

An oil-lamp stood on an antique dresser, and scratching a flame to life he lit the wick and held it aloft. Woven rugs covered a wood floor, with a four-poster bed taking up most of the room.

"Over here."

"Ma'am is your husband at home?" he asked, watching the bed curtains, bugscreen and linen and heavy drapery layered together, "I don't want to...surprise anybody."

"He's here with me."

"Oh I'm sorry," he mumbled, turning to leave, "I came at a bad time-"

"No, please stay," she said, "You have questions."

He pressed his lips together. She didn't sound much older than him. "Promise not to report me back to Stone Love?"

"Why?"

"You _promise_?" he pleaded, as if they were sisters and her betrayal would break his heart. He cleared his throat and swallowed.

"I promise," she said, curious now, "When will Sam marry?"

"I don't know. But I won't let him," he said, "He's all I got."

"You could run."

"I hate having to look over my shoulder. I was thinking of something else," he said, fingering the lid of the jar, "Something that could break his contract, all square and legal."

"You're considering the rite of confirmation?"

He blinked. "What?"

"I guess not. What do you recommend?"

He told her, and afterwards she hummed to herself as if asking the houseflies for counsel, and Dean realized she was talking to her husband. The flame wavered in his hand, sending drunken shadows along the wall.

"Can you pay?"

"I got the shirt on my back ma'am."

"Keep it," she said, "Stand in front of the mirror for me, and be still. This will take a few minutes."

He did as told, and set the honey and lantern on the dresser. A little straw bench sat tucked underneath, and he pulled it out to sit.

"Like this?"

"That's good." she said, and with a gust of salt sea air the flame guttered, and his reflection vanished.

Dean touched his face. He was still there, nothing in the room had changed. He looked at the bed in the mirror, but the curtains did not move._ Fuckin' hate black magic._ he thought.

It was quiet outside. No cars passed, and he wondered if the Nurse would still be there when he finished. He studied the honeycomb in the jar, and wondered if Big Sister had beds or if they all slept on the floor like nuns, feet touching heads and arms tucked over their newly hatched tits. The thought made him claustrophobic.

And then something pinched at the bridge of his nose. Sniffing hard, he scratched his face, but the pinch spread to the back of his throat, and suddenly it felt like something was trying to climb down into his lungs.

"Aaaaaa..." he choked, clutching the side of the dresser and whistling as if breathing through a straw. The temperature dropped ten degrees and when he began to breathe again, the air smelled like sour pennies and he felt...older.

"What...did you take?" he asked, looking to see reflection again and finding it covered in sweat when he himself was dry. His face hung in the lighted mirror like a wet mask.

"A week," she said, "Maybe two, I'm feeling decadent. Hand me a jar from the lefthand cabinet."

He reached down and opened a little door with a brass keyhole. Jars of all sizes lined the shelves, and gave off such a terrible smell he had to look away. Slender fingers parted the bed curtains, and he handed her a jar.

"Now don't wander off," she said, "I have to do some mixing, and I only need a minute."

"Need me to get anything?" he asked, not sure where this all crossed the line from witchcraft to home cooking, "A...whisk or something?"

"No thank you," she said, parting the curtains and sending forth another whiff of the sea, "I'll help myself."

Dean shrank inside his jacket, but smiled politely as she lowered herself out of the bed. Her cotton nightgown ran from neck to ankles, clean in the front and stretched tight where her husband bulged out the back. She was hunched and every step brought her pain, but she leaned against a bedpost and crossed the room.

She turned around to take something from the closet, and Dean's eyes flicked to him. Her husband. A small man curled up tight, his mouth open, his eyes closed, half desolved beneath her skin. She asked him a question, and his jaw worked up and down in a slow, liquid answer only she could hear. She nodded, and took town a pouch of red powder.

"Make sure Sam is alone when he takes this." she said when she was finished, "He'll be watched. You'll need a distraction."

He nodded. "How long will it last?"

"A day and a night," she replied, climbing back into bed, "Long enough for the contract to expire."

He looked down at the little jar. His reflection looked more tired than he felt. "Thank you ma'am."

But the bed curtains swung shut, and she said nothing. Leaving the honey behind, he blew out the lamp and made his way back to the truck.

The next morning, Dean woke up before everyone else, and walked outside with a sheet of plywood. _This has got to be the stupidest way to die_. he thought, and checked that his bootlaces were tucked in. He'd hung rabbits far from the compound, and was thankful it hadn't rained. Running would be hard enough in this clay.

He looked down and puffed up his chest.

"Hey there poochie," he said, dropping one end of the plywood into the practice pit, "Wanna go for a walk?"

* * *

><p>Sam was in the kitchen when the alarm was raised. He looked out the door and was promptly pushed back in.<p>

"It's loose," said one girl, barricading the door with a table, "Go down to the smokehouse, say the words beside the door, don't let anyone in."

"But what about you?"

"Do it." she said, and slid a metal sheet across the window, wards he didn't recognize tooled into the surface. He offered to help, but everyone worked in silence, following some hidden directive, and he walked away.

The smokehouse was eight by ten feet, lined in brick with hooks in the ceiling where saltpork might hang. A slip of paper lay on the floor, and when he said the spell the bricks glowed with an alien light before fading again into darkness. A bare mattress with blue striped ticking stood against the far wall, and pulling it down he sat and waited for the all-clear.

* * *

><p>The hunters at Big Sister were good, but by keeping the hound in an enclosed space, they'd failed to notice a crucial weakness in hell hounds-the longer you run them, the slower they get.<p>

Dean cracked his knuckles and let the hound close the gap between them. He'd stuffed the rabbits with salt, and it whined pitifully.

"Dean!" one of the girls shouted, "Get away!"

"I got this." he said, not looking up. He saw its' prints in the dust, and slugged it in the ribs. It clocked him in the jaw, blood arcing into the dust, but he swung back and pivoted for another punch. Something wet hit the ground, and there the clay sizzled and turned black.

"That's right," he said, readying himself for the next round, "Let me see those bitch tears."

* * *

><p>Night fell, and still Sam had no word from outside. He lay on his back, thumb tapping against his chest, when a knock came at the door.<p>

"Dean?"

"Sammy let me in." he said, his voice pitched low.

"What happened?"

Dean smiled, his teeth red and wet beneath the lantern that he hung on a hook. Sam sat back on the bed, his back to the wall, one side of his face etched in light.

"Who hurt you?"

Still grinning, Dean reached into his mouth with thumb and forefinger, tilting his head down until his eyes took on a wide, solemn look, and rooted around the back. Sam breathed out shakily as Dean's mouth stretched over his fingers up to the third knuckle, slick and bruised and bloody.

"Here," he said, and tossed the tooth to land on Sam's shirt, "I'm gonna be tonguing that spot for the rest of my life."

Sam looked down. "You fought the hell hound?"

"Gave everyone a show is all," he said, hooking his thumb into his shirt to peel it off, "Put it back in the pit a little bit ago, the ladies are warding the shit out of it outside."

"What for?"

"For this," said Dean, and pulled the jar from his boot, "This, this is your ticket out."

Sam took the jar from him, and his nose wrinkled at the smell. "How?"

Dean dropped his shirt, flat muscle gleaming in the light as he leaned over Sam. "We're gonna fake your death Sammy," he said, joining him on the bed, "Can't marry a corpse."

Sam shuddered as Dean pressed his mouth to his throat. "You're crazy."

"Come on baby boy," Dean pleaded, placing a knee between Sam's legs, "We don't have a lot of time and I just had a real fuckin' scary fight..."

Their kiss had the coppery aftertaste of blood, eager after a day apart from each other, but Sam broke off, his cheeks flushed.

"We can't, not here," Sam whispered, watching the lines of Dean's bare shoulders, "You signed off, remember..."

But Dean was behind him now, hands running along his shirt with a light touch until his thumbs found the soft flesh beneath his jaw. The bed was small, and slid across the floor whenever Dean moved. He wrenched Sam's hair, and bit him below the ear until the boy grabbed the back of his neck to pull him close, Sam turning his face to look at him.

"Maybe," said Sam, licking his lips as he considered, "Maybe we can get away with...a little."

"Whatcha got in mind?" Dean asked, a wicked toy smile on his lips.

"Um, what if..." Sam tried, "We just...laid there?"

Dean blinked. "I don't get it."

"Here," said Sam, making room on the bed, "Lay down."

Dean did as told, and watched with wry amusement as Sam pulled off his boots and the rest of his clothes, Dean's cock slapping hard against his belly when the boxers slid off. He would have wished for Sam to undress more slower, but the clock was ticking, and he bit his lip as Sam placed his hands on Dean's knees.

"You gonna spoil me..." Dean whispered, letting his head fall back as Sam parted his legs and dropped his face. Hot breath skated over the little pink flower below, and extending his tongue, Sam pressed a flat hand beneath Dean's thigh and pushed inside.

"How's this...a little?" Dean managed, his eyes opening and closing slowly.

Sam's head popped back up, bangs swinging in his eyes. Beneath the hooks dark with old blood, the soot-stained walls, with his thick cock in one hand and the other arm hooked under Dean's knee, Sam could have been the Devil's rent boy. He leaned in for a kiss, a bead of sweat running down his face to rest on his chin.

"I got this," he said gently, cock easing into Dean until their hips met, "Kiss me."

Dean pushed his mouth open, his hot sweaty face sliding away as Sam went for his throat, and he grabbed Sam's hips to make him move.

"No," Sam whispered, "Just stay like this."

Dean looked at him, looked down at the stretch of elegant muscle that intersected with him.

"Nothing will happen if we don't move." Sam insisted, and Dean clamped down on his involuntarily, his guts twisting. He _needed_ a fuck after a fight, he'd start shooting from the clock tower if he didn't get a good hard dicking and toot sweet.

Sam read his expression. "No you're right, this was stupid."

"No wait, don't-" said Dean, as Sam began to pull out and Dean grabbed his ass, slamming him back into place. Dean shut his eyes, and he steadied himself. "You can't..._leave_ me like this."

Sam pressed his lips together. "What about this?"

He leaned back, his beautiful body on full display, and spitting into his hand he grabbed Dean's cock and slicked the length of it. "Is this good?"

Dean grit his teeth. Even without moving, Sam's cock was a dark heat within him, opening, stretching, warming him, and every clench made his dick threaten to finish. Sam worked him slow, sliding up and back down to the base, and Dean wanted to fuck that educated hand until he splattered the ceiling, but he kept still. Sam would come round soon enough.

He leaned up on his elbows to kiss Sam.

"Hrrdrr." said Dean, teeth sunk into Sam's lower lip.

"Like this?" he asked, Dean's legs wrapping around his waist, and Sam bit back a noise in the back of his throat.

Dean smiled. "Yeah, like that."

* * *

><p>"What's on the inventory list?"<p>

The girl looked at her clipboard. "We're out of eggs. Better order some more."

"Okay, did you check the deep freeze?"

Clipboard ran her finger down the list. "Good question, be right back."

The kitchen was still in disarray after the hound chase last night, and she pushed some boxes aside to get to the smokehouse. She laid her hand on the knob when she heard voices within.

"Fuck...don't stop..."

Her glasses slid down her nose and she pushed them back up. She'd been sneaking looks at Sam ever since he arrived, and wondered... She was the only one in the building, and the other morning shift girls were chopping wood in the plaza. She leaned closer.

"You sore?"

"You fuckin' kidding me, keep going..."

She pressed the door with a finger. The sun would not be up for an hour and the lamp had burned out, but even so she had been taught the old ways of concealing one's shadow. She got very close without the boys realizing it.

"I want you so bad..."

She wasn't sure which boy said that. They were both kneeling, Dean's back to Sam and his head head tilted back on the boy's shoulder in shuddering euphoria. The end of his cock glistened, hypnotizing her.

"Come on..."

"No," said Sam, locking Dean's hands behind his back, "Remember what I said."

"Gonna fuckin' kill you...gonna wring the blood right outta your cock you little..."

Sam continued to pound into him, hips snapping expertly, and Dean's cock pointed at her in the dark like a flower thirsting for sunshine.

"Please..." Dean whimpered.

She licked her lips. She'd never done anything, she was only fourteen...

Reaching out, she grabbed Dean's cock, and with a note of surprise he breathed out hard but said nothing. Having gotten what he wanted, he fucked shamelessly, caught between her hand and Sam's rock hard body, and finding new strength he came down on Sam like a velvet fist, and her eyes widened at the noises Sam made.

"Yeah you like that?" Dean asked, leering, "Fuckin' give it to me bitch."

"Fuck, Dean-"

She nearly screamed as Dean came in her face, blind behind the stained glasses, but anything she said was drowned in Sam's pleas as he bent Dean over and grabbed a handful of dirty blond hair, pumping into him with a desperate snapping of his hips as he built to a slow, jarring climax that screwed up his angel face until he looked like he might die. She took off her glasses, and even blurry he moved with an elegance she would never achieve as a Funtown wife. For the first time in her life, she thought the f-word, which to her was just as bad as saying it aloud.

She slipped out, pressing her hands to the door. "And he's gonna marry the Queen in Black," she said to herself, and sighed, "Bitch is gonna have some pretty babies."

* * *

><p>Later, when Dean had gone back to his assigned bed, Sam fingered the jar of poison. "Now or never."<p>

He wrote a little note and folded it inside an envelope, and, on second thought, slipped off his ring and stuck it inside before licking it shut. He opened the jar, wondering where the hell Dean had gotten it. It smelled like the ocean and the bottom of a butcher's boot.

_Please let this work._ he thought, and with a final thought for Dean, he drank it down.


	66. Sam Winchester's Funeral

When Dean awoke, a bonfire had been started in the courtyard, and two girls were going thru his jacket looking for anything else belonging to Sam. He grabbed the nearest one's wrist.

"The fuck are you doing?"

"Sam's dead," she said, her voice level, "And now he haunts this place. We have to burn him."

He tossed the blanket aside, having slept in his boots, and ran for the fire. A cold finger of doubt wormed into his heart, had the poison really killed Sam? He passed several rooms with the doors opened, where others went about their chores and said nothing to him.

"Where's his body?"

The girls looked up. "It's still in the smokehouse," they said, "We used all the salt warding the Hound last night, someone's gone out to get more."

A blonde about his age opened an envelope with Sam's handwriting on the front, and plucked Dean's ring from inside.

"This is super cute," she said, slipping it onto her finger, "Wonder how much I can sell it f-"

Dean didn't believe in hitting women. He had no problem pointing a gun at them however.

"Give it back."

They eyed the .45 warily. No strangers to violence, one of them laughed, and the rest soon followed suit. The blonde's lip curled.

"Point it at your own head."

"Okay." he said. And grabbing her hair, he knocked their foreheads together and twisted his right arm around until the barrel pointed at the back of his skull. "This better?"

She flushed, more from the contact then the threat of execution. "Here," she said, holding up the ring, "The letter's for you."

Dean snatched both from her, staring over his shoulder as he wheeled away for the kitchen. Once he rounded the corner, he pulled the note out, read it once, and tucked it back in the envelope. He almost put the ring in with it, then changed his mind last second and slipped it on his finger.

It wasn't the first suicide in the compound's history, but a crowd had formed around the entrance, and they hushed at Dean's approach. He saw himself reflected in their eyes. The neglectful friend who'd failed to see the warning signs, the cold-blooded hunter who'd visited one too many horrors upon those closest to him, tomorrow's salt-and-burn once they discovered Romeo hanging from the rafters.

But if they hated him, they showed respect for the dead, and let him pass. He saw Sam's bluejeans on a girl no older than ten, the legs rolled up four times over her bare feet, and Sam's shirt on another girl.

The nurse removed her hat and held it to her chest, playing with the brim. Dean knew he'd have to play his part, but something seized up inside him, and when he tried to walk further he found he couldn't.

"We found him an hour ago," she said, her body blocking the passageway, "Did his note say anything?"

"I haven't read it." he lied.

"It's written to you."

"I know it."

"You know why he might have done it?"

Lighting the wick of a nearby lantern, he waved the match out in the air and held the light aloft to check on Sam.

"They said he's still here," he said, pulling the door open, "Maybe ya'll can shake a magic 8-ball and ask him yourself."

The bottle had rolled into a corner, but Dean didn't dare touch it. They'd wrapped a blanket around Sam's mid-driff for modesty, but otherwise he hadn't been moved. From a bird's eye view, he looked like an old painting of the Ascension, hair spilled over the edge of the bed so he faced the door, right arm stretched toward Dean with a finger extended, though whether to point toward the exit or beckon in the unwary traveler, they would never know. His eyes were still open, more black than blue now.

He passed his hand over Sam's face and folded his hands atop his chest. The ring felt straight on his hand. With his back to the others, Dean let himself reflect on Sam's last words, and the room blurred.

_Til we meet again._

The nurse stood behind him. "The pyre's ready."

"Not yet," he said, his hands still holding Sam's as he prepared for the next step in the plan, "Give me a day. So others can see him off as well."

"You got a way of getting in touch with them?"

"Yeah," he said, his breath steaming in the cold air, "I got it covered."

"Anything we can get you?"

"Yes ma'am. I'm gonna need any dried pine you got laying around, a sawhorse, a saw to go with it, and..." he paused, looking up as he counted on his fingers, "...twenty 16-penny nails."

"You sound pretty definate."

He stood straight. "Ma'am, Winchesters are _born_ building coffins."

* * *

><p>Dean didn't need a measuring tape. He cut and nailed everything together before lunchtime, and when they laid Sam inside his head cleared the top by a fraction of an inch. Six horses were roped together to pull a wagon in lieu of a hearse, and all the girls stopped work long enough to watch him go.<p>

The girl wearing Sam's shirt gave Dean her shovel, and the one in Sam's bluejeans turned over a rock in the bean field she was plowing and produced a quart of gin. He thanked them, but they neither smiled nor spoke.

Taking a trail thru the forest, he found an ancient tree stump that would serve, and lifted the coffin on top. The horses were smart, and feeding them a bag of apples he sent them home.

He looked around. "Sam?"

He smiled at a chill wind against his neck, and set the shovel against a tree. "It'll be dark soon," he said, "I hope your friends aren't expecting tiny sandwiches."

Dean sat on the coffin, the gin bottle swinging between his knees. When the sun set, he turned it up and watched the liquid swirl clockwise down his throat, waiting for the first mourners to arrive.

* * *

><p>Sam's ghost sent news of his death far and wide, though he changed the details wherever he went. And so it was that a psychic in Utah, a cat-lady in Topeka, and a blind man in Grand Central station acted as hubs for all the creatures Sam might have come in contact with, living or dead. By the time they arrived in the forest where Dean had set up the wake, each visitor had their own account of how Sam died, but all shared a common interest.<p>

"I can't even...just thinking about Sam...I was draining a truck driver last week and I got so horny I ended up eating the pine freshener."

"In the unbounded vistas of the Sleeping Ones, 'neath unnamed stars and dread shadows did we lie together, agreeing to go halfsies on a Twix afterward."

"We did it once to the Douche Canoes. I'll never be able to listen to that band now."

"I'm sitting on the bullet wound, wanna see?"

"I've started a petition for a Sam Winchester jellybean. It'll taste like book-paste and regret."

"Does anyone know where's his grave's at?"

"Yeah, I did a tracking spell on this cum stain. Kind of annoying, it's been glowing bright white for hours, and now I have all these moths..."

"He was so smart."

"He was so nice."

"He was so beautiful. And now he's gonna dry up in the ground."

"I never wanted him to leave."

"I want to look at him forever and ever."

"Forever and ever..." they chorused.

Stars came out in the east, the west still purple against the interlocked branches. The bottle slipped from Dean's fingers, and he looked up at a circle of faces, some very beautiful, and some that made his eyes unfocus so that he had to look away. They set garlands of ivy and morning glory about his head, and a small hand pressed him down onto the coffin lid.

"What're you doin?" he slurred, so numb he didn't even feel her touch.

"There are hard days ahead," she said, placing the shovel atop his chest like a dead knight's sword, "Don't forget him. Sam must live in you."

When he tried to speak, she'd already stepped into a shadow and vanished. He clutched the wooden handle, head jostling as he and the coffin were lifted and the trees moved overhead. More flowers were tossed on him, and someone at the front of the line began to sing.

_Where the sun don't shine _  
><em>And the wind don't blow<em>  
><em>Down in the Bluff<em>  
><em>Where the bodies go<em>

_Girls hang high and_  
><em>Boys hang low<em>  
><em>Down in the Bluff<em>  
><em>Where the bodies go<em>

_Corn for the chicken and_  
><em>Eyes for the crow<em>  
><em>Down in the Bluff<em>  
><em>Where the bodies go<em>

"You takin' us...to church?" he asked, but now everyone sang, and his question was lost. He wanted to say Sam was only faking it, but there might be a Funtown agent about, and it was easier to close his eyes.

He turned his face to one side. "Sammy, can you hear me?" he whispered, "This is just until tomorrow, after this we're free. Hold on for me baby boy."

With every verse their voices became slower, lower, until they achieved a deep throbbing bass that buzzed in his teeth.

_Gramma's in the kitchen_  
><em>What does she know<em>  
><em>Down in the Bluff<em>  
><em>Where the bodies go<em>

_The girls are pretty_  
><em>But they don't show<em>  
><em>Down in the Bluff <em>  
><em>Where the bodies go<em>

_Where the sun don't shine _  
><em>And the wind don't blow<em>  
><em>Down in the Bluff<em>  
><em>Where the bodies go<em>

They emerged from the forest onto a dirt road, grass growing high between the tire tracks, and something broke in the air as if they'd walked through a spiderweb. Dean stayed as still as possible, for though he couldn't explain it, he suspected that the mourners were there to protect him, that he was no longer in his own country. That he was trespassing.

One of the girls plucked a flower from her hair, petals glossy white with red at the center. Things scuttled under her skin and out her ears, and when she breathed on the flower, it froze like glass.

"This is your stop, Mister Winchester." she said, and dashing it across his chest, it shattered into a thousand pieces, and a knock came from inside the coffin. Dean's eyes sprang open.

"Sammy?"

The knock pounded harder, more official. "Hey man, there's a line."

Dean looked down. He was in a gas station men's room, alone, his shirt covered in blood and smelling like old milk. _Shit I must've puked it all up_. he thought, his stomach a hot knot inside him. The knock came again.

"Just a minute." he croaked, and grabbing some toilet paper he started mopping up the blood and shoving it down the toilet. Pale sunlight filtered through the doorhole where the knob had been stolen long ago, but the man stepped away and no one tried to look in on him. The light flickered, and for a second he thought it might be Sam. Then he remembered Sam was dead, and his eyes filled with tears.

"Honey?" asked an older woman, "Are you all right?"

How long had he been here? "Ma'am, I'm gonna unlock this door," he said, swiping his face with his sleeve, "And I'm gonna run right out and keep running, okay?"

She paused. "Okay."

"And ma'am?"

"Yes?"

"Did you see a funeral pass by here tonight?"

"Did someone die?"

He looked at himself in the mirror. There were bloody handprints up and down the wall behind him where he must have stumbled earlier. The shovel leaned against a condom dispenser with a flower garland around it. "Don't worry about it." he said.

By the time he found his way back to Big Sister, his head was pounding and he tossed his shirt into the nearest cook fire. A splinter of flower was still lodged in his skin, and when he pulled it out the air fogged with cold.

"They took him," he said, his voice cracking, "They took Sam...I don't know. Where could they be?"

Stone Love was seated beside the practice pit, listening to the Hell Hound pace. "You brought this on yourself."

"Yeah and I aim to fix it."

"Have you considered the rite of confirmation?"

He narrowed his eyes. "You're the second one in as many days to ask that."

"It would save you and Sam a lot of trouble."

"You didn't answer my first question."

"Were they singing?"

"Yeah. What's the Bluff?"

A breeze shook the tree branches, and shadows played over her half-hidden face. "It's where the bodies go."

"How do I get there?"

She looked up, but seemed to be addressing something just beside him. "Follow the muscadine vines," she said, and Dean's shadow nodded, "Find the Pastor's Wife. She'll get you in."

Dean hesitated. "Come with me," he said, "You know this area better than me."

She glanced at his ring and looked away. "I have no connection with Sam. You have a better chance at finding him, and the Bluff stopped admitting me a long time ago."

When he seemed confused, she continued, "They didn't take him to America. They took him...to their country. The rules are different."

Cold air touched Dean's hand, and the nearness of Sam gave him strength.

"But the people who live there are much the same. We're in the South, Mister Winchester," she said, touching his shoulder, "Be polite. Always give wrong information."

"We owe you a lot ma'am."

"Sam will pay his debt. I've seen it."

He nodded, watching her until her hand fell away and she resumed watching the Hound. And shouldering his long-handled shovel with Sam's shadow at his heels, Dean set off for the Other Lands.


	67. Phone Sex

**Is this scene non-con? Not sure how to categorize the sex here.**

**I have this fantasy of David Bowie as a sexy televangelist, which is where Sloppy Floyd came from. **

**Notes: Sam faked his death to avoid marrying the queen of the monster village Funtown, but monsters stole his body and took him to the Bluff, a magic place where humans normally can't enter.**

**Black is the gangster who freed Dean from prison in exchange for future work in Texas.**

* * *

><p>Ned looked at Dean in the rear-view mirror and smiled. Hitchhikers always made for good conversation. "So what brings you to Florida?"<p>

The sun came out from behind a cloud, glinting on the .45 in Dean's waistband. A long-handled shovel rested between his legs, and the stink of blood lingered on his boots. "Oh you know," he said amiably, as Ned paled, "Just came down here for my health."

* * *

><p>Later, Ned sprinted down to the seminary basement, past youth groups and boys bent over their books, and stood outside the radio studio. A red light over the door lit another minute, then the clock struck six and it switched off.<p>

"Floyd?" he asked, opening the door an inch.

The DJ pushed the headphones onto his shoulders, the radio now playing a gospel tune. "Yes?"

"I think Funtown's up to something."

He swiveled around to face him. Sloppy Floyd was a long boy with long hands, rock-star cheekbones, and blonde hair that he constantly combed back from his face. Today he wore a white button-down with the collar popped up, and a silver suit that shimmered like a new coin.

"Do you have proof?" he asked, as if Ned would lie.

"I was giving a ride to a hitchhiker the other day," he said, remembering Dean, "And I saw the strangest thing in a church down on Route 10."

"What did you see?"

* * *

><p>They were quiet the rest of the ride, until Dean looked out the window and held up his hand. "Hey, can you drop me off here?"<p>

Ned squinted. The church was a small white clapboard house sagging with rain, with a striped awning over the door and folding chairs lining the front yard. The reading of the day hung on a six-foot board in block lettering, with hymnals stacked beside it. A heavy, hypnotic baritone issued from speakers wedged in the front window.

"Is that your mom?" he asked, pointing at a woman seated in the front row.

"Yes," Dean lied, grabbing his shovel. He'd given a fake name as well, but Black was still in prison, and wasn't in a position to mind. "But hold on five minutes, could you?"

He nodded, and Dean smiled and stepped out of the truck.

The Pastor's Wife wore all black, short skirt, low-cut jacket, and a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed her face. Long white hair spilled down her back, and the tops of her breasts were so delicate that Dean wandered that she didn't burn. She fanned herself slowly with a program, as if she, like the house, were weighed down by the sleepy, swollen heat.

"Good afternoon ma'am, may I please come in your church?"

She placed a hand over his heart, her voice trilling like an insect's. "Are you circumsized?"

He shivered at her touch, and though her face was still hidden his eyes hurt just looking at her. _A Funtown girl,_ he thought.

"Uh, you mean in the practical sense?"

"I mean, is your heart fixed?"

A chill air touched his shoulder, and Dean understood her question. "What I do, I do for the good of others."

She dropped her hand, and he took it for a sign to continue. "I need to get into the Bluff," he said, tightening his grip on the shovel handle, "I've been charged with the care of a body stolen from me last night, and I've no way of getting to it."

She sniffed and did something elegant with her hand. Inside the church, the batteries in the tape player were dying, distending the preacher's words like some half-remembered dream, but at her gesture it stopped and a hymn began to play.

_"Will you come and follow me if I but call your name?_  
><em>Will you go where you don't know and never be the same?"<em>

"Play the music back," she said, "Your friend will tell you the way."

He lowered his head a little to see her, but she tilted away, and he realized she did this for his own safety. He thanked her, setting his shovel against the side of the house, and walked in.

The church was empty save for a podium and a trestle table in front of it holding the tape player and a rotary phone. All the windows were open, his boots ringing on the hard oak floor, and it smelled like no one had been in there a long time.

"Sammy?" he whispered, and a chill hit him, "Okay, just making sure."

He pressed the slow rewind button. At first it was what he expected, an angular melody that lept up and hissed when you didn't expect it, but then the words took shape, and the sky darkened outside...

The phone rang. Dean blinked, not sure if he should stop the music or not, for he hadn't seen a power line in miles and the phone had no cord running out of it. It rang again, and he lifted the receiver to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Dean, it's me." said Sam. Dean whipped around to look.

"I can't see you."

"I'm right next to you." said Sam, and Dean shuddered as his hand passed through cold air.

"Talk to me," he said, grabbing the phone and carrying it with him, "Tell where to go next."

"Dean are you okay?"

Tears had slipped down Dean's face before he could swipe them away. "I wasn't sure," he whispered, "I thought, maybe, I just imagined you were haunting me. That you'd gone."

Sam had only been dead a day and yet he longed to be touched, to feel Sam's head rest against his shoulder, his hands running through his hair, his warm mouth on his. Hearing Sam's voice sharpened his need, and he kept moving, afraid that if he stopped he'd lay down and never get up again.

"The Pastor's Wife must have set up a connection so that you can talk to me," said Sam, "I know where my body is, I can lead you to it."

"So how do we get into the Bluff?" asked Dean, stepping outside, then looked behind him. The sky was stone gray and threatening rain that hadn't been there five minutes ago. The church, the chairs, the woman, everything was gone. All that remained was a black square of earth and an old church program lying in the weeds.

"We're already here Dean."

* * *

><p>"...and the hitckhiker went into the church and played the tape backwards, and when the song finished..."<p>

"Yes?" said Floyd, now very interested.

"He talked to somebody, walking back and forth past the window with a phone that weren't plugged into anything. And then he never walked out."

"How does this tie into Funtown?"

"I took pictures of the church," he said, drawing out an envelope, "It's gone too, like those houses we've seen. Not even pipes sticking out of the ground."

Sloppy Floyd narrowed his eyes as he flipped through it's contents. He always demanded evidence, and then drew his own conclusions despite it. His hand trailed to the stereo and switched off the music. "What was the hitchhiker's name?"

"Black," he said, "From Sugarland Texas."

Floyd ran his thumb along the edge of one photo, a mailbox and several rows of folding chairs facing an empty lot. The Sugarland Boys had been in the papers recently, two handsome boys beneath the portrait of a dead judge. Why one of them had ventured so far from home...

"Okay, I'm going to spitball an emergency broadcast," he said, handing back all the photos but one, "Call up the techs, I'll want to boost the signal when callers start phoning in."

The boy nodded and hurried out. Sloppy Floyd readjusted his headphones, pressed another button, and leaned into the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, slipping into a warm, rolling tenor, "I bring you all a solemn warning. Do not take your hymnals off the shelf this week. Do not sing them, do not even think them."

He spread his hands wide, as if his listeners could see him. "It has just been brought to my attention that _they_ are using music to lure young Americans to some wicked scheme, that something in the hymns either instructs them or tricks them or possibly even _changes_ them at a fundamental level for purposes of which I can only surmise."

He threw up his hands. "Bar the doors! Count your daughters! All music is suspect now," he said, waving a finger, "All music can and will be used against you."

Students filed through the halls, but classes could wait. He had to see Funtown for himself.

"I will have more to say on the subject later, but until then, please join hands and say a prayer for our brother Black," he said, fingering the picture of Dean, "Wherever he may be."

* * *

><p>Dean walked another five miles without seeing a living creature. The land was the same, but the sun never showed and black rain fell once every half hour, just enough to keep Dean's clothes from drying. Muscadines grew everywhere, and he grabbed a fistful.<p>

"You can't eat the food here." Sam warned.

Dean grit his teeth and let the grapes fall to the ground. "I didn't pack anything with me."

"We won't be here long."

Dean stopped to unpack his lantern, for night was falling fast. Hooking it to the end of his shovel, he swung it upright, the darkness so thick he felt like he was looking at the forest through a hole cut in black paper.

"It's late," said Dean, "You see anywhere I can sleep?"

"Most of the houses have disappeared," said Sam, "But there's a hunter's blind up ahead, turn here."

And indeed a small shed had been built into a tree, painted a motley green and brown to hide a hunter in deer season. Too tired to a build a fire, Dean listened for anyone within, and climbed up the ladder.

"Finally," he said, peeling off his jacket one-handed to keep hold of the receiver, "I won't sleep long Sammy, just gimme three hours and we can keep going."

"No, you should sleep," said Sam, "I'll wake you if something comes this way."

"Where are you?"

A cold finger touched his face for an answer, and Dean's heart ached. "I wish you were here."

"I'm still here," Sam whispered, insubstantial hands running along Dean's arms, "We're safe now, I checked, there's nothing for miles."

Dean smiled into the phone. "Aren't you the saddest 900 number ever."

"If you wanted..."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"...take off your clothes."

Dean breathed hard into the phone. He'd wondered about jerking off with Sam haunting him, and was hip for anything. "Okay," he said, pulling off his clothes until he was down to his boxers, "Now what?"

"Lie down. I'm going to try a possession."

Dean couldn't have heard him right. "What?"

Then Dean's mouth fell open, and he pitched to one side, his whole body alert and humming as if he'd bitten a live wire. Sam was in his head but distant, like a radio broadcasting across a wide canyon, and desperate little noises echoed in his brain.

"Oh fuck you're so warm..." said Sam, Dean flexing involuntarily as his hips thrust into empty air. Heat licked up and down his spine while a cold hand flicked at the base of his cock, but it was erratic, amateur. Neither boy had control over his body, and Sam wouldn't last.

"Sam, what the _fuck_...?"

And with a great rush of heat, he hissed "not yet" and ectoplasm exploded onto the ceiling like a can of jelly left in a double boiler.

Dean picked up the phone and Sam paused on the other end of the line.

"...oh my gosh I'm so sorry."

"What the fuck was that?!"

"I thought I'd last longer."

Dean pressed his lips together, his cock a hard line inside his boxers, and wiped a trace of goo from his face.

"Wait, I'll be right back," said Sam, "We can try something else."

"Where are you going?" Dean asked, but no answer came. Setting the phone aside, he checked the lantern and waited, one arm curled behind his head and the other on his chest.

_Damn what is taking him so long?_ he thought.

"Is this easier?"

Dean held up the lantern, and a girl crouched in the entrance, naked, slimy with mud, eyes lit with an expression he recognized.

"...Sam?" he whispered, not sure he wanted an answer, "Where did you get her?"

"She was buried not far from here," said Sam with the girl's voice, "Follow me."

He took Dean's hand, but Dean shook it off. "I ain't touchin' a dead body."

"It's me Dean," said Sam, "Does it matter which car I'm driving?"

"Yeah, this one is short and squishy and tastes like fish."

Dean tried to look away, but Sam hovered over him, arms spread across the width of the narrow room, the filthiest, most mouth-watering tits bouncing in Dean's face. "Are you coming or not?"

They walked in a circle of weak light, hearing neither insects nor game birds. The forest had been ugly during the day, all the plants alike and cast in mute greens, but by night the trees had a raw, chewed-on look, as if they were infectious. Dean looked sideways at Sam's vessel, and wondered dreamily if Sam were his spirit animal in some honky vision-quest.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"How does..." Dean hesitated, gesturing at the Bluff in general, "...all this look to you?"

"You mean as a ghost?"

"Yeah."

"Like anywhere else. Why?"

"It's like it's the same, but it's not. Everything here looks...crappier," said Dean, fingering a rotted bit of tree bark, "It's like I'm seeing Florida through bad glass."

Eventually the forest opened to a furrowed field that stretched away in both directions to no discernible road Dean could see. White flowers stuck through the mud, and he shined the lantern on Sam.

"Now what?"

Sam pointed at the ground. "Pull her up."

Dean knelt, and he saw that the flower was a set of folded fingertips, the nails a pale lavender. The blood drained from his face, but he set the lantern aside and uprooted the dead girl, holding her out one-armed like a prize fish. She might have been fifteen, flat-bellied, with rounded limbs and a Cupid's bow mouth that parted against white teeth. Her head lolled with the weight of her hair.

Dean swallowed. "What is this place?"

Sam's eyes flicked down the length of the row. "It's a maiden field."

"What, they don't got enough coming from Florida, they gotta grow their slam-pieces?"

Sam became very quiet. "What do you think they eat in Funtown?"

Dean dropped her. "I don't like this."

"Dean..." said Sam, pressing his hands to Dean's chest, "They're not alive, they never were."

Sweat ran down one side of Dean's face, his cheeks hot, gnawing his lip but not moving away from Sam.

"You don't have to do anything," Sam continued, and murmuring in the dialect of Hell he'd learned in his undead days, the ground began to glow, "See?"

Uncertainty ate at Dean, but loneliness won out. Sam pulled him to the ground, fingertips gently pushing against his chest until Dean was on his back as more girls emerged. They were all lovely, not identical but near enough in looks to all be sisters. Sam hooked a finger into Dean's boxers.

"I need a body," said Sam, knees bracketing Dean, "Possessing you was too quick, too...shallow."

"Why you waking them all up?"

A wicked smile played at the corner of Sam's mouth. "I might need them later."

Sam stuck two fingers in his mouth, cheeks hollowed out as he sucked them wet, and slid them between his legs.

Dean kept his arms at his sides, missing the weight of Sam on top of him but looking on in horror as he made a V with his fingers and parted cold rosebud lips over Dean's cock. The girls lined up and said nothing, their eyes as flat as stuffed animals.

"Damn," said Sam, prodding himself with Dean's cock, "Where's the hole?"

"Wait, what if you get pregnant?"

Sam looked at the other girls. "Don't worry. These are seedless tomatoes."

Dean rested his hands on Sam's thighs as they got the first inch in, and Sam bit his lip, holding it in a minute before inching his way down a little more. He managed halfway before tossing aside caution and splitting himself on Dean's thick cock.

Sam grabbed Dean's shoulders, his eyes wet. "I didn't think it would hurt."

"Oh baby boy..." said Dean softly, his hands light on Sam's hips, "Let me do this."

Sam arched his back, hands sliding up Dean's arms and pulling them over his head until their bodies mold together, hips gently teasing each other with this new arrangement. Dean took a breast in his mouth, sucking away the dirt until it was pink and clean, and then started in on the other one, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of Sam's waist.

"Roll over."

Dean pressed his mouth to his, pushing Sam's jaw away with the heel of his hand to plant wet kisses down his throat. He pulled Sam's arms apart to look at him, down the soft lines of his belly to tight cunt lips dragging wetly along the sides of his cock before swallowing it up again, Dean's breath hitching every time he bottomed out.

"No, let me do this," says Sam, and locked tight on Dean's cock he rode out the burn, slow at first, sliding along the length of him with open, soundless kisses. Not knowing what clits were for, Sam ground on without building up to much, and hissed in frustration.

"This one's broken." he said, sliding off of Dean with a wince. Dean's cock twitched in the cold night air.

"Hey!" said Dean, as Sam ventured into the field, holding his sore cunt in both hands like a seam had burst and everything might fall out, "Where are you going?"

For answer, Sam touched a honey blonde and her face changed. Dean blinked.

"Did you just swap out?"

"I'll get it this time." said Sam, and topping Dean he began the arduous process all over again, twisting on the end of Dean's cock until his face turned red. As if the female orgasm was a lamp you plugged in, and if he kept adjusting the voltage the light would switch on.

Five girls later Sam was nowhere near to finishing and Dean had come four times, his cock throbbing like it had lost a heavyweight fight.

"Stop..." croaked Dean, clawing at the ground. Pulling himself up, he tried to run, but a hand grabbed his ankle, and another girl birthed herself from the earth to latch onto his leg. More hands grabbed his arms, and Sam's latest model caught up with him. Another storm was passing through, and thin black rain streamed down his body.

"I'm not done."

Dean curled up, frankly scared of Sam in girl form. Girls fucked Dean for all kinds of reasons: to connect, to prove something, to get what they want, to forget the last guy. Without his body, Sam had become...impersonal.

"Fuck's sake, I'm turning into a raisin," Dean coughed, "You couldn't squeeze enough from me now to wet a postage stamp."

Sam studied him, then running a finger lightly on the underside of Dean's cock until it was hard again, he moved the other girls aside and sat on him. "You're right," he said, putting his hand on Dean's chest, "I'm going about this the wrong way."

Dean sucked in a cold mouthful, and someone else looked out through his eyes. _ No no no,_ thought Dean, as he became a voyeur in his own head, _What are you doing?!_

"Okay ladies," said Sam in Dean's voice, his cock rising in the air, "Let's get this party started."

* * *

><p>Later, the sky lightened and Dean awoke with someone asleep on him, hair fanned out across his chest and a cold arm twined around his neck. If she'd looked anything like Sam, he would have been content to lay there forever, for Dean had come across a thousand shapes in his life so far and only one suited him. He put his mouth to her ear.<p>

"Sammy?"

The girl looked up. "Dean?"

"We should go."

"Okay."

The girl went slack, and Dean pushed her away, looking around for his shovel. The earth was soft, and it would take no time to bury them. Studying the girls' dreamless faces, something about last night had disappointed him, something beyond Sam's cavalier Bodysnatcher attitude, but he couldn't put his finger on it. When he finished, he went back to the hunter's blind and picked up the phone.

"Where to now?"

"Get back on the main road and head east," said Sam, as Dean shook dirt out of his hair, "There's a hunter in the area, married to a Funtown boy. She can help us."

"She got a name?"

Dean pulled on his bluejeans and noticed blood on his dick for the first time. He wondered what Funtown wives kept in their pantry.

"The Butcher's Wife."


	68. The Butcher's Wife

**Sorry I dashed this one super fast, but I wanted it done before the weekend started.**

**Thanks to zephyr_hb for the Spanish translations! I want you to feel as displaced as Dean feels right now, so please this chap all the way through, there's an english version at the end.**

**That genderswap romance scene at the end? Yeah I was super, duper high when I thought of it.**

**Notes: Sam is dead and his body stolen by monsters, but a lady rigged a phone so Dean could talk to him while they go in search of Sam's body. **

** The girl they are about to visit is a hunter married to a Funtown man, a monster that drives you mad if you look at it's face.**

* * *

><p>Dean pressed a tree branch to one side, then scooted back to whisper into the phone.<p>

"Dean what's wrong?"

"She don't have any clothes on."

"Yeah I can see that."

"And she's got pie cooling on the window sill," he said, horrified, "I don't wanna to take pie from a girl after seeing her naked."

"Actually I'm pretty sure that's what everyone wants."

"Fuck you man I'm serious."

Dean turned to watch her out of the corner of his eye, the pond rippling silver beneath the cloudy sky.

She ducked her head and whipped back a rope of thick, black hair in a watery arc, fingers combing it flat against her skull as she began to sing. Cupping water to her face, she spread it across her chest and arms over and over, not bathing so much as genuflecting, her words echoing in the silent glade. The pond was shallow, stopping just below her dimpled hips, and she waited until the water stilled and her reflection focused beneath her.

Dean went back to the phone. "You say something Sammy?"

"Dean, there's a ghost in that grain field yonder. She's singing to him," he said, his voice strange, "And he's...waiting for her."

"To do what?"

Sam hesitated. "Nothing good."

"It don't sound like English."

"It's not. When Big Sister came for me, the woman from Funtown sang something like that."

"What's she saying?"

"I don't know. But it's the same language."

Dean couldn't see her face. "Is she human?"

"Yeah, but she's a hunter, so watch it."

The house, a tin-roof cottage on cinderblocks, was set back from the road, surrounded by a white fence with a bell over the gate and a piece of string running all the way to the front door. Except for the grain field on it's eastern edge, all of the land behind it was flooded, black tree limbs peaking out from brown water. Hiding the phone, lantern, and gun inside his jacket cum rucksack, Dean slung it over one shoulder and rang the bell.

He shaded his eyes. "Anyone home?"

He waited, and after a minute the door opened and a hand reached for the string. A chill wind touched Dean, and he turned to Sam with a leer.

"Monster wives," he said, "Ya think maybe you two got a booty call in common?"

Her blindfold was hand-made, gray muslin sewn over cardboard and rounded against her cheekbones like a carnival mask. She had an apron tied over her white sleeveless dress, but otherwise wore nothing, large, ripe breasts bouncing beneath her apron, brown feet spread across the grass as she made her way toward him with one finger trailing the string. A flock of blackbirds exploded from the grass around her, swirling skyward. When she stood on tiptoes to put her hands on either side of Dean's face for a kiss, he saw the outline of a butcher's knife in her apron pocket, and gently pushed her back.

"Do I know you?" he asked, her hands warm on him.

Her brow furrowed. "Cómo es que llegaste a la frontera sin rostros por tí mismo?"

"I'm sorry," he said a little nervously, "I don't speak Spanish."

Setting his thumb and forefinger on the edges, he pulled the blindfold away, white ribbons sliding over her serene face. She waited a moment before opening her eyes.

"Why do you wear this?" he asked.

She ignored him and looked at a spot two feet behind him. "Ah, tu esposo esta muerto. Lo lamento."

He looked at his side then back at her. "Can you see Sam?"

"El debe quedarse fuera," she said, holding up a finger, "Hay una maldición en la casa, y ademas, un hombre muerto arruinaría mi comida."

Her words rolled over him like a cotton sheet, soft, meaningless poetry, the same as cowboys he'd come across whenever John took jobs by the Llano, and he found himself hypnotized by her beauty. She wound an arm around his waist, her hot breath on his lips, and waiting for him to exhale she came away with his .45.

"Hey give it back!" he said, but she was spun away and pointed it at him.

"No he visto un cazador en siglos," she said, closing her left eye and drawing a bead on him, "Tiene mucho rebote?"

Raising it to the sky, she fired off five rounds, her arm straight, smoke curling from the barrel. When the sound died, she pulled up the hammer, and blackbirds fell to the ground. Four were cut into two halves, but one tried to escape, and she crushed it's skull with her bare heel.

_One bullet to go_. he thought, wishing she'd grabbed his hair and fuck his mouth right there in the yard, _Man they don't make girls like that where I come from._

"Malditas avez negras," she said, returning his gun, "Siempre se comen el pie."

And taking his hand she led him through the gate, her arms wirey with muscle and smelling of bacon grease. He set his shovel against the side of the house, and followed her into a dining room bare save for a table, two chairs, and a trapdoor with a brass handle.

She pulled out a chair. "Sientas."

In was hotter inside than out, woodsmoke fogging the corners of the room. There were only two doors leading from this part of the house, a small bedroom on his right, and what he presumed was the kitchen connected to the dining room by a massive stove. She opened the trapdoor and pulled a jar from a hole in the ground.

"It that made from cornhusks?" he asked, as she offered the mescal, "I don't sit well with moonshine, drink enough and your nipples will sprout fur like greasy little mushrooms."

But he thanked her and took a sip, choking it down before he had time to cough. She poured a glass full for herself, and drank it straight down as if it were water.

"You shouldn't be alone out here," he said, eyeing the shadow of the butcher's knife in her apron, "This is the first house I've seen in miles. You should have dogs or a gun or something."

She smacked her lips and wiped her mouth on her bare arm. "La abuela me cuida."

"Where's your husband?" he asked, holding up his ring for a visual aid.

"Lo mate," she said, pointing to the grain field, "Su sangre riega la tierra."

He smiled, thinking her husband was out tilling the soil. "Well I won't keep you too long," he said, reaching for the bottle again, "Have you seen a funeral pass by?"

When she didn't understand, he got up to the woodstove and pulled out a bit of charcoal.

"They came two days ago," he said, drawing black figures on the floor, a monster funeral procession with him and Sam in the center, "They took my friend's body and I need it back."

"¿Estaban usando flores?"

"Sorry?"

She took the charcoal and drew little flowers around the caricatures' heads, and he nodded. Sketching a winding road, she marked the path with various land features and ended with a tree at a crossroads, adding an arrow pointing north. She X-ed the tree, but then he saw it was a stick figure hanging from a limb.

"Ve más halla del árbol colgante, lo llevaran a la calle del Eco," she said, putting the jar to his lips, "Siempre encuentras cadaveres ahí."

He swallowed some more, easier this time but still stronger than what he was used to. "Is he there?" he asked, drawing little crosses on a cartoon hill to imitate a graveyard, "Where do they take the dead?"

She studied it for a moment, and then laid a finger on the byre. "Quién es el hombre muerto?"

"His name is Sam," said Dean, drawing a picture of Sam and a black queen holding hands inside a heart, "He was supposed to marry the Queen in Black, but he died."

"La reina negra?" she said, her eyebrows drawing up, "Eso es malo."

She stood up to tend to the stove, cinders flashing in her black eyes as she prodded the logs.

"No debes estar en la calle del Eco," she warned, the poker glowing red, "Sam a acordado cazarse con la reina, y solo su verdadera esposa puede despertarlo. Ella es poderosa, pero no vendrá."

"Look, talk to Sam," he said, pulling his phone from his jacket, "Maybe he can understand you..."

She lay down the poker. "No lo encontrarás. Los árboles no te dejarán pasar," she said louder, her arms raised, fingers curling into claws, "La abuela no te dejará pasar."

He pressed his lips together. "Please? Just talk to him?"

Dropping her hands, she shut the oven door, and put the reciever to her ear. "Hola?"

Dean waited, looking around the room to see if Sam would push a penny or scrawl his name in a fogged window.

She held the phone away. "Tu télefono está roto."

Dean looked up. "What did he say?"

"No hay nadie," she said, handing it back, "Estas solo."

He spoke into the phone. "Sam? Sammy?" When no one answered, he realized the constant hum of Sam's presence, like a headache after a hot day, was no longer there, and his gut tightened.

"Sssh," she said, putting a finger to his lips, "No estés triste. Hay un lugar para ti."

"I don't..."

"Debes estar hambriento," she said, pointing at his stomach, "Te are _pie_."

_Pie!_ he thought. "You have something to eat?" he asked, suddenly hungry again.

"Wait here." she said, and slipped into the kitchen. She was careful to open it only as much as she needed to enter so that he couldn't see in, but when she returned with a steaming pie platter pressed against her bosom, his erection hit the underside of the table so fast it left a dent. She spread a red-checked towel and set it before him.

"I don't wanna eat..._all_ of this." he said, with a sloppy smile, "Where's the fork?"

She said nothing and sat opposite him, drinking the remainder of the mescal. There was a good pint left, but she only stopped once, to wipe the tears from her eyes. She watched him over the lip of the jar with a mixture of relief and regret, as if Dean were the last chore on her list, but he could not read her intent. Then setting it down, she motioned for him to eat and went back into the kitchen.

He looked at the pie. He was so drunk and the house was so fucking hot he didn't know if he'd be able to keep it down. "Hey, um, I don't wanna sit by myself."

The kitchen opened. Dean looked up and...wasn't sure what he was seeing. Some instinct told him to be still, for he was a guest in a monster's home, and worse he was in the Deep South. _Be polite._ Stone Love had warned him. He smiled and laid a hand on his .45 under the table.

It was as if a giant had been deboned and fastened to the ceiling. A great pink, pulsing amniotic sac of scar tissue that filled the room, bulging in the center and mottled with dark patches like the side of a jersey cow. It had no face, it had no muscles. It smelled like a Christmas ham.

_What do you think they eat in Funtown?_ Sam's words echoed in his head.

She stood framed inside the door, wiping her hands on her apron, a distracted habit of domestic routine. Pulling the butcher's knife from her pocket, she stretched her arm until she stood on tiptoe, her eyes locked on Dean's, face tilted sideways to gaze at him through her black lashes.

_She's going to kill me,_ Dean thought, his brain floating on mescalin, _Monster Husband is due back home soon and he'll be expecting dinner._ He thought back to the kiss she'd given him upon arriving, and already wished for another.

She pushed the blade into the mass, all the way to the hilt, holding it there to savor the moment. And withdrawing it, she stepped away before the sac tore like cheap leather, and a red waterfall rushed across the floor over her feet and toward Dean in a wave of hot pickled meat.

The apron hit the floor. Her arm fell gracefully to her side, the knife glittering as she moved. Climbing onto the table, she knelt down before him and plunged her hands into the lattice crust, pulling up great gobs of cherries.

"Come ahora," she said, touching his mouth with the flat of the knife, "Cuando seas un fantasma, soñarás con esto y todas las otras cosas que amaste."

She offered up her hand, sweet, red fruit dripping from it like a Mayan sacrifice. He didn't look away, taking her fingers into his mouth to suck them clean, breathing hard through his nose. Her body was round and ripe beneath the dress, drawing in close for another kiss, smelling of love and charnelhouses, and his lips parted to meet her, hungry, tired, eager to be touched. But Sam's face rose up in his mind, and he stopped. He turned away.

"You are beautiful," he said, his eyes hard, "No one could say otherwise."

He put a hand on her cheek. "But you are not mine, and I must go back on the road now. For there's only one thing in the world that can plug this hole in my heart and I will not make him wait another hour."

And still in his chair, he snatched the jar and cracked it against the side of the table, a long jagged shard in his hand. "So," he said, a wild glee leaping up in him, "Wanna fight?"

There was barely six inches space between them, but she hauled back and buried the knife in the table an inch from his hand had been. He sprang away, thinking he could get to the door, but unable to pull the knife loose, she lifted the entire table off the floor and _flung_ it at him. Wood planks exploded everywhere, and he crashed into the wall in a cloud of plasterdust.

Dean stood up, holding his bruised shoulder. "I don't wanna...hurt you," he gasped, "Holy _shit_ you're strong."

She didn't wait. Scooping up the knife, she planted one foot on the back of the remaining chair and launched herself at Dean, knees tucked into her body like a dancer, scraping the ceiling as the blade arced toward his prone form. He managed to roll away a second before she took out a chunk of the floor.

"Sam," he hissed, fumbling for the glass shard, "Where the _hell_ are you?!"

He held up the chair lion-tamer-style, hoping to fend her off long enough so he could back into the door. Training at Big Sister meant she would kick his ass in close confines, but if he could get outdoors...

Then he stopped breathing. He looked down and found her arm attached to him, for she'd punched through the chair seat and grabbed his throat. He choked for air, scratching at her hand for a few seconds, then finally set his boot against her chest and heaved her away.

She lay on the floor, her dressed hiked up over her thighs, and he fell to his knees to pin her wrists down. The knife clattered against the floor, but he had leverage on his side.

"Fuckin'...bitch...," he whispered, her hips twisting beneath his, "Why you so set on killin' me today?"

He could feel her nakedness beneath the dress, her skin hot against his, the shape of her young body, and for some reason it brought back memories of sparring with John. But when he kissed her, she bit his tongue and spat a red mouthful in his face.

"Aah fuck I can't see..."

He grabbed her hair and began to drag her to the window, thinking he could take the fight outside that way, blood and guts sloshing in their wake, but just as he was about to push her out she grabbed him by the glass shard and pulled herself back inside.

He stared at her wounded hand. "The fuck is _wrong_ with you, don't you feel that?"

It happened so fast. She swung at him with a right hook, he ducked, and when he stood up again he had stabbed her. Five or six inches, right in the honey spot between the ribs.

"Oh shit," he said, letting go of the shard, "I was just gonna cut you..."

She looked at him, a little disappointed, and broke off the outermost part of the glass, tossing it to the corner of the room.

"You can't do that..." he said vaguely, casting about for another weapon.

_But she _can_ do that._ he thought, remembering the Hell Hound the other girls had to fight back at Big Sister. He was a cakewalk in comparison, and jogged sideways to the knife with this thought to keep him warm.

_I have to live, I have to get Sam,_ he thought to himself, wrapping his fingers around the handle, _Anything goes at this point._

It wasn't a throwing knife so much as a brick with a sharp end, but he threw at her, hoping for a feint so he could get his gun. But she didn't feint. She didn't budge.

The knife stopped a foot behind her, shivering in the windowframe. Blood spurted on the ceiling. She stared impassively at her left arm, hanging by a thin flap of skin, and then that too ripped and the whole limb fell to the floor. Dean covered his mouth and began to scream.

"Holy..._shit_ I didn't mean to do that," he said, walking up to her with bloody hands outstretched, "Let me belt that off baby girl, if you have a needle and thread-"

She cut him off with a look. Bending down and lifting the knife with her good arm, she cut off the now useless left thumb and stuck it in the artery, slapping it in like a wine cork. The other veins could wait. She was a little gray, but otherwise unchanged.

"That's good, that's real good baby," he said, panic welling in him, "Now I know that has to hurt, so why don't you lay in bed while I-"

Waiting until he was close enough, she punched him between the eyes, circled behind him, and began to choke him with a broken chair leg. He gasped for breath, his eyes stinging, and hunched over for his jacket. If she felt any pain she did not show it.

_Get the gun, get the gun, where's the _fucking_ gun._ he thought desperately.

Feeling the jacket, he flipped her over his shoulder and sprinted for the door, leaving a bloody wake behind him. He grabbed his shovel and waited until he was at the gate before pulling out the .45, afraid even dropping it in that place would be risky.

"Sam?" he said, and cold air brushed him, "I got reasons for doing this, just so you know."

She marched toward him, slower now, the butcher's knife in her right hand. He breathed in, and leveling the gun with both hands he aimed for the cookstove and fired his last bullet. Live charcoal burst forth and the whole house went up, her form backlit for an instant before disappearing in a greasefire mushroom cloud.

The heat singed his face, and he backed up more and more as the fire ballooned out, afraid she might actually walk out of that. He looked over his shoulder an instant to see her wreathed in flames, and he grabbed the phone from his jacket.

"Sammy, don't get mad at me," he said, "Pretty sure she was killin' folks and storing the bodies to feed her kin."

"Later, you have to hide in the pond, they won't find you there."

Dean stopped. "Who, her husband?"

"Her children," said Sam, "They're going to be born today, and they're going to feed."

"She didn't look pregnant."

"She will be."

He stuffed the phone back and kept running, when he heard horse hooves behind him. "What the hell...?"

A black stallion came galloping round the back of the house. Dean thought it might have been a plough animal panicked by the fire, until he saw her. She sat atop it's back, smoke coiling from her body, hair lashing in the wind, and with the reins between her teeth and a lasso in her good hand, she whirled the rope in the air and brought it down over him on the first try. He got another few steps before she pulled it taut and he fell on his ass, bloodying his mouth on the way down.

She dragged her hostage to the grain field, hobbling both him and the horse to a tree. She had little strength now, but more than enough to secure his hands. Ash drifted over them as the house, as everything she owned, burned, but she was dying, and she bore it's loss philosophically.

"Sam," Dean whispered, as she left him and walked into the field, "Can you untie me?"

Cold hands worked the knot as she unbuttoned her dress one-handed and let it fall to the ground, wheat parting around her as she began to sing in that alien tongue.

"Hurry the hell up, she's doing something."

Though the sky had been nothing but rainclouds since Dean had arrived in the Bluff, the wheat lit up gold as if sunkissed, underlighting her face until she was radiant. Dean pulled free of the rope and snuck toward the water, one eye trained on her in case she noticed his absence.

He pulled out the phone as he ran. "That ghost in the field, is he doing all that?"

"Dean, get in the fucking water already."

Dean stopped and watched the girl, his hand shaking. "What's happening to her?"

Back in the field, hundreds of tiny orbs of light floated from the earth, hanging above her as delicate as dew on a spiderweb. Occasionally one would bump another, and ring out with a silvery _ting_. She put out her hand to touch them, tears running down her cheeks, but she was happy and she'd done this one thing before dying. And closing her eyes she opened her mouth wide, and the lights flew down her throat in a white funnel, filling her lungs, until they were all inside her, and her eyes snapped open with the first expression of pain Dean had seen so far.

"He's getting her pregnant." said Sam.

She disappeared into the wheat, a geyser of blood shooting upwards as a swarm of Funtown children rose in the air like carnivorous flies. The horse whinnied, and seconds later they swarmed round it, stripping it down to bone.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, and Dean remembered where he was. He pelted toward the pond, sucking in a big lungful and diving headfirst. He'd been running so long he didn't know how long his air would last, but years of training kicked in, and he let himself sink until his back hit rocks, the receiver still pressed to his ear.

"You're good," Sam assured him, "Just wait. Wait."

He waited. The water was too muddied to see through, but the swarm was moving on, and Sam's voice calmed him. He ached all over from the fight, and his first thought was,_ Well at least I got a bath._

_Holy shit I nearly died._ was his second thought. If he died in the Bluff, would John ever find his body?

His third thought was,_ Sam wanted to marry into _that_?_

"Safe?" Dean asked, lifting his head above the water.

"Yeah, I think so."

When it was dark, Dean stopped beside a hollow tree and threw himself down to sleep.

"Well at least we got a plan now," he said, pulling off his boots, "Can't be too many hanging trees in this country."

"One would hope."

Dean touched his shoulder and winced. "That was a helluva fight, for a girl."

"She married a creature," said Sam, "She had to be tough."

"Think all the hunters here are that fuckin' scary?"

"She did what she thought she had to for her family," said Sam, "I mean, what would you do if someone threatened _your_ wife?"

Dean snorted. "Hey Sammy," he asked, staring at the ground, "How we gonna get home?"

"I don't know," Sam admitted, "Gotta be some other way back, some thin place where this Florida touches the real one."

Dean thought about this, not wanting to admit how displaced he felt in this strange country. He folded his hands beneath his head, hoping he would not dream of fire. Sam sat beside him, unseen and unbearably lonely. Dean fidgeted in his sleep, and Sam wondered what he was running from.

"It's okay," he whispered in Dean's ear, "You don't have to be afraid."

He studied Dean's face. Last night's possession had been a disaster, but Dean had been awake then. He wondered...

Sam lay his hand on Dean and opened his eyes inside a dream.

* * *

><p>Sam was alone, back in the Nevada desert, but not where he had been buried. This was a wide, featureless vista framed by purple mountains, the earth cracked like old paint, and when he lifted his hand he found he was holding a movie ticket. He looked around, and an art deco movie theater stood before him with halogen lights blinking around the marquee. A Mexican telenovela entitled <em>INVITACION AL AMOR<em> was playing today.

Inside, it was quiet, and when he approached the concession stand a shadow passed him a box of chocolate mints. Sam thanked him and walked through a thick felt curtain to the theater, where Dean sat in the center row. He sat beside him, the lights dimming as the screen began to count backwards.

Dean smiled at him, but distantly, and turned back to watch the opening credits. Sam took his seat as a heart grew from the center of the screen and opened onto a tree-lined hacienda, where a masked hero sat astride his horse and peered toward a bedroom window.

"Dean," Sam asked, squinting at the screen, "Why are you a girl?"

Senorita Dinah lay sleeping in her four-poster bed, caramel curls fanned across the pillow, long lashes against her cheeks beneath a burning candleabra. A wedding dress stood on a headless mannequin in the corner.

Suddenly the a wind cut across the room and the candles blew out, pitching her into darkness as she sat clutching the sheet to her nightgown.

She spoke in Spanish, and subtitles popped up at the bottom of the screen. "Who's there?"

The curtains flew apart, and there he stood, silvered in moonlight. She flew towards him, resting her hands on his chest. "I thought you were dead!" she said, "I thought you were lost to me!"

He tipped her head back, running a thumb over her chin. "You waited for me."

Tears sparkled in her eyes. "No, I didn't," she said, "I'm to wed the Don at sunrise."

"You don't have to see that sunrise," he said, and she saw that his shirt was soaked in blood, "Come with me. Let us never be apart."

She backed away, crossing herself. "Would that I could go with you," she said, the wedding dress in the background, "But I am strapped to fortune's wheel, forever hostage to my destiny."

Though she pulled away, he took her hand and kissed it, speaking in a warm baritone Sam recognized at last. "Beautiful women die every day."

_John_. Sam thought bitterly, looking sideways at Dean. He couldn't see the man's face, but he knew it for a certainty.

Trembling, she let herself be gathered in his arms, a doll in his embrace._ He can't kiss her_, Sam thought, _What happens when he kisses her?_

"Dean!" Sam yelled.

Dean started, wide awake. Remembering where he was, he reached for the phone. "What's wrong?"

"We need to keep moving," said Sam, inventing wildly, "The swarm might come this way."

Dean yawned, the last stars fading from the morning sky. "Yeah okay." he said, smiling at something.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, just something while I asleep."

"What happened?"

"Really it's stupid. Maybe it's this place but..." said Dean, grabbing his shovel and heading toward the road, "I just can't remember the last time I had a good dream."

TBC

* * *

><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

**When they first meet. "How did you get to the Bluff by yourself?"**

**She looks at Sam's ghost. "Ah, your husband is dead. I am sorry for you."**

**She points to Sam's ghost. "He must stay outside. There is a curse on the house, and besides dead men would spoil my cooking."**

**She takes Dean's gun. "I haven't seen another hunter for ages. Does it have much kick?"**

**After she shoots the gun. "Damn blackbirds. They always eat the pie."**

**When Dean expresses concern for her safety. "I have Grandmother to watch me."**

**When Dean asked about the whereabouts of her husband. "I killed him. His blood waters the earth."**

**When Dean describes Sam's funeral. "Were they wearing flowers?"**

**Giving Dean directions to Sam's body. "Go past the Hanging Tree, they would have taken him to Echo Street. You always find bodies there."**

**Pointing to the picture of Sam. "Who's the dead man?"**

**When she discovers Sam is engaged to wed a powerful monster. "The Queen in Black? That is unlucky."**

**Upon realizing that Dean is on a dangerous quest to find Sam's body. "You have no place at Echo Street. Sam is contracted to wed the Queen, and only his true wife can awaken him. She is powerful, but she will not come."**

**Warning Dean of what he may face in the Bluff. "You will not find him. The trees will not let you pass. Grandmother will not let you pass."**

**She listens to the magic phone but can't hear Sam. "Your phone is broken."**

**When Dean freaks out because he can't talk to Sam. "There is no one. You are alone."**

**She shushes him. "Sssh, don't be sad. There is a place for you."**

**She points at his stomach. "You must be hungry. I made pie. Wait here."**

**She places the knife at his mouth. "Eat now. When you are ghost, you will dream of this, and all the other things you loved."**


End file.
